


On the Thinnest Edge

by BlackCatRunning



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Grace, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angsty Schmoop, Bromance to Romance, CAS REALLY LOVES DEAN OKAY, Case Fic, Castiel Whump, Coughing, Destiel - Freeform, Fever, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, I'm drawing inspiration from his fading grace episodes during season 10, Impala, M/M, Major Illness, Mild Blood, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Ships It, Season/Series 08 Spoilers, Sick Castiel, Sick Character, Sickfic, Slow Build, Sneezing, Swearing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weak Castiel, Worried Sam Winchester, angel disease, but not too much, forgive me for the sap, just a little bit of injury, kind of, there is a lot of sappy stuff in this fic, there is lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-06 08:36:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5410184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCatRunning/pseuds/BlackCatRunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They almost fell into a routine - Dean at the wheel, Sam at his side, and Cas frequently in the back-seat. It was familiar, comfortable. But hunting life takes a dark turn when Castiel falls prey to an ancient, fatal illness only angels can contract. In a race against time to save their friend, the brothers scramble to find a cure. In the process, Dean and Cas discover a little bit more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Cas Knows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PuddinPop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuddinPop/gifts).



> A/N: IIIIIIIIT’S THAT TIME AGAIN. WRITING DESTIEL FOR THE AMAZING PUDDIN!. So excited to finally have this underway! It’s set in a slight Season 8 AU, with Naomi being nonexistent. How he got out of Purgatory? Let’s assume it’s God again. After Hunter Heroici, Castiel returns to Heaven as he originally planned (without Naomi’s interference) and deals with his issues. For the purposes of this fic, things go somewhat smoothly and order is slowly restored. When he’s not in the clouds helping rebuild Heaven, Castiel is traveling with the boys as a novice hunter, free of mind control. 
> 
> Also, this story will be blatantly M/M between Dean and Cas. #Sorrynotsorry that I poisoned your mind and pulled you to the dark-side, Puds my love ;D. I’m running with my personal head-cannon that Cas fell in love with Dean shortly after rebelling, and Dean himself is just beginning to contend with his own feelings post-purgatory. Both have yet to confess or discuss this. For those interested in more plot summary or the parameters of the prompt, here you are!
> 
> Prompt: Cas gets struck down with an illness. It's an illness that affects only angels, and it's truly debilitating. Obviously, the boys think it’s just a cold at first, but Cas tells them about it when he becomes quite bad. Basically, the illness affects angels and if left untreated, it zaps all their angel abilities, making them mortal eventually, but the problem is that if they become mortal, their vessel is destroyed. 
> 
> ISN’T PUDS A GENIUS? It’s the best idea ever. I seriously suck sometimes at thinking up prompts, so this was a gift to write honestly. I'm going to try and update every day, hopefully finishing by Christmas.

The angel Castiel never grew tired of watching Dean.

That simple act had once been his single most important mission – his directive. After millennia of growing from fledgling, to foot-soldier, to strategist, it was Dean’s decent into Hell that gave Castiel his seraph status. The archangel Michael had beckoned to his young brother with a soft, warm tug at his grace and informed Castiel that it would be his most esteemed and dire responsibility to siege Hell and retrieve the Righteous Man. At least, that was Castiel’s impression. Michael scoffed that it was no more than a delivery, a postman’s errand. Raphael delighted in amusement that the Righteous Man had finally fallen, crowing to anyone who would listen that the Apocalypse would soon begin. Older seraphs, those who had long since been granted such status, argued that Castiel was far too young to be leading the charge.

Castiel remembered being amongst his brothers and sisters feeling terrifically small, so very naïve, but also hopelessly exhilarated. Michael had deemed him worthy of such a task as to rescue the Righteous Man, one of the essential tools for the End of Days. Michael’s own future _vessel_. To the archangel, it was no more than Castiel picking up his dry-cleaning. To Castiel, it was suddenly everything. He could celebrate his Father, his siblings, the Will of Heaven… such things were important to him then.

Castiel also remembered the stench of hellfire. He remembered the lick of flames at his wings, eroding the feathers, eating away at his grace. The throngs of heavenly power all around him, spiraling from his garrison as they dove and slashed and burned. Castiel remembered the moment he saw the warped, tortured soul he sought, still shining so brightly and with such strength that it was a beauty to behold even then. And Castiel remembered the instant he set his hand upon Dean Winchester. It was a memory he hoped never to forget.

Castiel could still recall the moments of stringing and sewing Dean back together, piece by piece, cell by cell. Reconstructing what was left of his skin and bones to house his soul. How long it had taken, Castiel could not say. Perhaps seconds, maybe years. It was a stretch of something timeless. During that span Castiel got to know Dean Winchester in a way he suspected no one else ever had before. It was curious to him at the time, and slightly exasperating work. Now, Castiel looked upon that chore with a great measure of fondness.

Castiel remembered his contact with Jimmy, his trip to the human Earth, and his first, awkward breath of frigid air in a millennia. Humans see so differently, move so clumsily, experience sensation with a foreign touch, and they fit so very tightly. While nestling his grace inside Jimmy during that evening on his porch, Castiel came to appreciate the adjective _suffocating._ The ability to utilize a human vessel was an instinct every angel possessed, but every trip to Earth reminded Castiel of little unpleasant details he had forgotten. Not that he forgot them anymore. His current vessel was well-worn, _broken-in_ , as some might say. Comfortable now. Jimmy had moved onto Heaven, safely tucked away, and Castiel found himself lonely at times. Certainly guilt-ridden. Though it riddled him with a confliction of joy and shame to know he had donned a vessel for such a time as to be cozy inside of it, whenever he stared at Dean, joy won out in the end.

There were times when Castiel suspected he might watch Dean too often. He had watched him with Uriel at his side, judging his progress and worth as the Michael Sword. He had watched him during his moments of anger and anguish over the injustice of angels. He watched Dean grow stronger as Castiel weakened, unable to resist the will and charm of a Winchester. He watched Dean break, again and again. Watched Dean when the hunter didn’t even know he was there. Even now, he watched Dean from a field on the side of a highway, looking toward the southeast where he could see the gleaming black exterior of the Impala growling up the road. He remained invisible, insubstantial in this moment, but had been waiting for the brothers to pass this mile marker. They had told him where they were going, where they had been, and where they would be in the meanwhile.

The angel Castiel never grew tired of watching Dean, though sometimes his voice could grow tiresome. That is to say, Castiel found himself exhausted after listening to Dean speak for too long. However, his tolerance for Dean (and Sam) was much higher than his tolerance for other humans at this point, and Castiel was proud of this. His first few conversations with Dean had been amusing, confusing, irritating, and at times extremely unpleasant. They could still be that way, but he no longer grew so weary so quickly. It was a relief.

The Impala whooshed past Castiel as he stood there, sturdy and untouched by the wind. With a mere thought, he spread his wings and with the whisper of feathers, he was suddenly in the car.

Castiel watched Dean’s glass-green eyes flick to the review, and then saw him rapidly gain tension and lose it. His soul popped with a momentary brightness. After so many days, many months, many years with Dean Winchester, this was a familiar reaction. Castiel knew that he had once again (unintentionally) frightened him. He also knew that Dean would swear at him for this.

“Dammit Cas,” Dean breathed, letting out a low breath. Sam perked up and glanced over his shoulder, not quite so startled. “How many times we gotta do this dance? I need to get you a bell or something.”

Why Castiel would need a bell at this juncture, he was uncertain. He was uncertain about many things Dean did or said. The Winchester grew no less mysterious despite the limitless number of conversations they shared. He was a language that evolved quickly and possessed too many contradictory rules to learn. Similarly, Castiel grew no less frustrated with this predicament.

He maintained customary silence, a staple response of his. Regardless of his frequently lacking comprehension during these talks with Sam and Dean, Castiel had always been rather quiet. Even as a fledgling angel, eons ago, Castiel was pensive and concise. Inquisitive. Humans filled absences of sound with all the noise they could muster; Castiel never properly understood this compulsion and it was likely he never would. To Cas, the only uncomfortable silence was a lonely one. He did not experience those kinds of silences with Dean and Sam anymore.

Sam spoke up, clearing his throat. “Everything going all right upstairs, Cas?”

Sam was asking him about Heaven. It was a gesture born of a consideration for Castiel, not out of any real interest. His intent was scribed clearly across his soul, easy to read. Castiel felt this warmth, let his grace bask in it, but forgot to smile. He sometimes neglected to manipulate the physical indicators to express his emotions, when his grace had always done that perfectly well without anything superfluous.

“Yes,” Castiel said, casting his awareness toward the chatter of his siblings, sifting through wavelengths to find them. Angel Radio was but one station of a multitude he had access to. “Heaven’s reconstruction is tedious but successful so far. Even so there are those who still shun me, and I cannot blame them. They find my presence deterring, to say the least.”

Another silence befell the confined space of Dean’s car. Castiel had to be honest with himself and admit he really did loathe the claustrophobic quality of its interior. The Winchesters rarely let him sit up front near the windshield, and Castiel at times grew envious of the wide-open view when he was so habitually forced into the box-like backseat. It made his wings bristle and his grace coil at times, especially at night. He couldn’t see the stars very well from inside Dean’s car.

By now the silence had stretched unusually long and Castiel wondered if he said something _awkward_ again. Countless things could be awkward to Sam and Dean Winchester, and though Castiel tried, he could not keep track of them all.

“Yeah, well,” Dean finally said after clearing his throat. “We still want you around, so that’s probably worth somethin’, right?”

To Castiel, it was worth almost everything. He knew enough not to say this aloud. “Yes, it is. Heaven does not feel like home anymore. I would much rather be here with the two of you.”

Dean met Castiel’s eyes in the review mirror. Castiel smiled, just a little, with only one side of his mouth. It felt strange, but it was for Dean. Dean did not smile back but Castiel could sense his soul fluttered, and that was enough. Sam stayed in their periphery to glance down at his lap with a grin that broke open his face like a wave.

“Geez, Cas, cut out the sweet talk,” Dean said, his voice gruff yet barbed with that mocking tone he would interject when moments became too serious. He adjusted himself in his seat and Castiel listened to the man’s soul twitch against the barriers of flesh. His outer expression was hidden from Castiel; he could only stare at the back of Dean’s head and the sliver of his profile: the curve of his cheek, and the tip of his nose. “Gonna make me blush.”

And somehow, that comment made _Castiel_ blush. Or he would have if Cas hadn’t intercepted his body’s response and kept the blood vessels in his face from blooming wide. He carefully willed them to stay thin, constricted, so no excess blood would collect in his cheeks. Observing what he could see of his own expression in Dean’s mirror, Castiel ensured that he did not betray himself. Dean’s eyes flicked to his again, and immediately afterward Cas found himself staring at his own lap, picking at a string on his trench-coat, wondering to himself why making eye-contact with Dean was so… different than it used to be, at times.

He supposed-… well, it could be entirely possible, that during Castiel’s long history of watching Dean, something changed. There was no one moment; instead, there were many. Those days when green eyes glittered in sunlight on dirt roads long and less-traveled; those nights when worn hands polished gun barrels far into the dawn because there was no sleep for the weary. Fleeting smiles, meals on the go, invitations to ride along, vehement commands to leave. Tears, Castiel unsure if he was the cause. Long strokes of pining absences. Sacrifice of the bloodiest kind.

Ever since rebelling Cas had come closer and closer to the surface of things. Angels were deep beings, well-insulated from the pain and the pleasure of the mortal world. Robotic. Hammers, as Dean had once suspected. But a curiosity and fondness for humans had slowly uprooted Castiel and propelled him up, up, up out of the dirt, the mud, the water. Out into the air where he could breathe the poison, and choke on the power of what it is to _feel_.

Fear, exasperation, worry, uncertainty, bitterness, longing. It all became very real. And some nameless afternoon on a day like any other, Dean had turned around with a cold beer and a smile, orange fringes of sky behind him, and stole Castiel’s breath away. The strength of his emotions was unexpected. Cas’s skin had prickled, breaking into bumps, and his throat tightened to the point where he couldn’t speak. Dean didn’t notice for he had been speaking to Sam, gesturing with his beer while saying something witty that made his brother laugh. More than anything in that moment Cas had wanted to touch Dean – just his wrist or his jaw or his hair – but was paralyzed by shyness. It was bizarre. All those times he had touched Dean before, clinically to heal or hesitantly to comfort, and that afternoon he had not been able to complete the act.

Ever since then he’d had a little trouble looking at Dean the same way. It was unclear to Cas what exactly had shifted within him, but the consequences were obvious. He found himself _wanting and needing_ when he had never _wanted or needed_ before. Cas could not decide if he liked the feelings or not; his opinion changed by the day. Locking them away grew impossible and they flared at the oddest moments, spreading through his stomach and fluttering there until the angel worried he could be susceptible to human illness as well.

That was of course impossible, but once upon a time, so were the feelings. Honestly, it all scared him. When Cas finally collected his thoughts enough to look up, he found Sam staring at him. It was an open, rather blank look that Cas could not read, but it melted into something softer as Sam reached forward to lightly slap one of Cas’s knees a few times. Staring, Cas wished it had been Dean’s hand touching his knee instead.

“Hey, so we’re thinking about stopping for lunch,” Sam said, in what Castiel understood was a conversational and friendly tone of voice. His soul, too, was welcoming. Unlike some, the younger Winchester had a naturally approachable disposition despite his size. Now that he could look past the darkness in Sam and see his light, it was clear to Castiel how bright and fervent Sam could be.

Sam’s eyes darted to Dean before he smirked and continued. “You wanna come?”

Dean shifted in his seat, but otherwise was silent. Cas could not discern if Sam’s glance at his brother was born of caution or of mischief. Hedging his bets, Cas nodded once. “Sure.”


	2. What Sam Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who’s worried?” Dean asked, stabbing into his stack of pancakes with more force than was probably wise. Cas’s eyes drifted down to the twines of the utensil, buried hilt-deep into the tower of flapjacks. Sam wondered if Cas could still read minds, or emotions, or something. He never said anything, but Sam suspected sometimes Cas knew more than he let on.

Sam was getting a little tired of it. Not like, totally sick of it or irritated by it. Just kind of tired. Like eating the same dependable, tasty meals again and again, wishing for something new but never hating the old completely. It was like that. Maybe if it persisted for another year, another two years, then it would be unbearable. Right now it wasn’t so bad. Sam was just getting tired of it.

Getting tired of this Dean and Cas thing.

When he’d first met Castiel, Sam wouldn’t have been able to guess at what was to come. The angel had been a hologram back then, without any authentic personality and a tendency to disappear. And he’d sort of detested Sam, to a degree. _An abomination._ It still stung now and then, but all Sam needed to do was look at Cas, talk to him, and he was reassured that the angel didn’t think that anymore. Dean still had trouble (because he was a thick-headed idiot) reading Cas and navigating the subtleties of angels, but Sam had long since learned those nuances.

When Cas was happy, he didn’t smile. His shoulders carried a little higher, he stood straighter, and his eyes stayed wide and round. When Cas was worried, he tightened, stiffened, clenched his jaw a little. When he was frustrated (and this was something Sam saw a lot when he and Dean got into spats), Cas had a way of squinting as if trying to read something far away. Over the years, the squint had graduated into a full-fledged bitch-face. That is, if he wasn’t already blustering around beating the crap out of someone. Occasionally when Cas lied, he did so very obviously – with stuttering, a lack of eye-contact, and an absolutely abysmal poker-face. The trick was to catch him off guard before he got time to build up a proper defense. Cas was a strategist, a fast-thinker, but he was often easily disarmed by those he cared about. Sam had outed Cas a few times by waiting for an opportune moment and then asking a sudden question; his lies were then so ill-fabricated that it was a cakewalk to weasel Cas into admitting the truth. Like most people with tender hearts, Castiel liked to be honest. He just needed the proper push to do so, sometimes. 

The only thing Dean seemed to reliably understand was that when Cas was unsure of something, he tilted his head. A clear indicator of a confused Cas was that signature tilt, just by a couple degrees, usually to the right. On multiple occasions, Sam had walked in on the angel studying something foreign to him and cocking his head all on his own, even when no one was around. It was charming, borderline adorable even. 

Which why Sam was getting kind of tired of all this because he knew _Dean thought it was adorable too_. But, of course, his brother dealt with it like he did with every single emotion he ever felt that wasn’t simple, wanted, or comfortable – with mockery, self-deprecation, or repression. Maybe alcohol, if the feelings persisted. Only once had Sam seen Cas send Dean off the bar unintentionally since returning from Purgatory, and that was the night known as ‘that one time.’ That one time Dean was laying spread-eagle on the bed after a hunt, dozing off, and Cas had tripped. (Sam tripped him, but he was going to the grave with that detail). Tripped him right onto the mattress, on top of Dean, chests pressed, pelvic-areas aligned, legs tangled together, lips only centimeters apart, and for one wild second they just laid against one another and stared. Breathing. 

Then Dean left abruptly for the bar. Cas poofed away soon after to some undisclosed location. Sam watched a documentary about sailboats and ate soup out of a can before going to sleep. 

Castiel was in love with Dean. Of that, Sam was sure. It had been that way since before he’d thrown himself into the Cage and walked soulless for months after. There was nothing more to say about it. Everyone knew. Many angels and demons alike had given passing comments about Castiel’s feelings toward his brother. The whole damn _universe_ seemed to support the idea. 

Dean was in love with Castiel. Of that, Sam was also sure. What exactly had prompted it to solidify, he didn’t know, but he suspected something in Purgatory. Dean had been really messed up after coming home, and not just from fighting his way through a throng of monsters for what must have seemed like a lifetime. No, he was haunted by visions of Cas, a guilt born from the belief that he’d left the angel behind. He’d been just as wrecked to see Cas return, much more shaken than he had been during Cas’s previous resurrections. 

The problem was _neither of them knew_. Not just about liking one another (that was a given), but Sam suspected neither Dean nor Castiel knew that they _themselves_ were in love. Cas, for all his intelligence and limitless knowledge, had probably never experienced this sort of affection. Given his propensity to get bashful around Dean lately (and his perpetual befuddlement afterward), Sam thought the angel was probably in the dark about his intentions toward the man. 

And Dean was as dense as the moon. It wouldn’t surprise Sam if Dean didn’t know what he was feeling at any moment of the day. He and his brother were pretty fucked up; emotional instability was a guarantee in their line of work. But still, even Dean could manage better than _this_. 

Sam watched the two of them from the other side the booth, across the table, sitting alone while Dean and Cas sat together. Years on earth had bestowed Cas with a better sense of casual posture, so he was bracing forward with his hands laced on the table top, studying the little juke-box machine on their table with avid interest. Sam’s eyes flicked to his big brother, who was slouched next to Cas with his arms crossed, bouncing one leg, glancing around the diner with an air of restlessness. 

Sam watched Cas tilt his head to the right, and then watched Dean watch Cas. There was no smiling, no clear indication of appreciation, but Dean’s leg stopped bouncing and tension drained from the hunter’s body as his gaze gently settled on the angel next to him. Cas looked over at Dean then, blue eyes quite wide. And they stared for a little while. Sam sighed. 

_Yes, definitely tired of it,_ Sam thought, reaching into his pocket to feel around for loose change. He came up with two quarters, which was all the mini-juke-box machine required in order to play a song. 

“Cas,” he said, and both angel and hunter looked over immediately. Dean’s leg started bouncing again. “You wanna choose a song? You can scroll through by using those levers, and then you insert the coins and punch in whatever number you want.” 

Cas perked up and leaned forward a bit more, shifting in his seat, not bothering to disguise his fascination. He took the quarters, as Sam knew he would. And then he shifted closer to Dean to see the juke-box better. When their thighs touched under the table, Sam knew without seeing it because Cas froze and Dean crunched closer to the window, boxed in, appearing claustrophobic and trapped inside the booth because Cas was in the outside seat and leaning over him. Unless he wanted to slither under the table, he couldn’t leave. 

Cas, for his part, was nearly unfazed. A bit stiff perhaps, but not bothered. Instead, he just continued to sort of hover in his seat, stretched, staring at the mini-juke-box and turning the quarters with his fingers in a very human gesture of thought. Dean watched Cas’s fingers, then reached up to rub his face. 

He said afterward, in a grumpy voice, “Why’d you start him on this? He’s gonna drain our change and pick the worst music.” 

“How do you know that?” Sam asked, feeling a little miffed on Cas’s behalf even though the angel hadn’t even looked at them. 

“Because I know him, and he has bad taste in basically everything.” 

“He hasn’t had time to sample genres and develop taste yet.” Sam frowned, picking up a menu from the stack to busy his hands and hopefully prompt Dean to do the same, so he could drop the argument. 

“More of a reason not to let him pick anything.” 

“More of a reason, I say, to let him pick everything.” 

“I’m right here,” Cas said, voice a bit growly. Both Winchesters glanced over and were met with one of those testy squints. “And for your information, I am familiar with lyrical and instrumental music that date back for centuries. No, I’m not completely current with whatever is on the radio today, but I assure you that I do have impeccable taste in _real_ music.” 

Here he pointedly glared at Dean, holding his eyes as Cas flawlessly inserted the quarters, and still without looking, punched in a coded number. Because it was still early for lunch-rush and there wasn’t a yet a queue on the machines, the current song playing through the restaurant immediately stopped and was instead replaced by the opening piano and synthesizer melody of Elton John’s ‘Crocodile Rock.’ Cas sat back in his seat, resuming his relaxed posture, though now staring aimlessly at the chrome interior of the diner. Sam got the impression he was listening closely to the song. Which of course Dean starting talking over. 

“Didn’t know you were such a priss when it comes to music, Cas,” he remarked, brushing at some crumbs on the table top before crossing his arms tightly again. “Guess you must have heard solid shit back in your day. People playin’ their hearts out on harps and wooden spoons more your speed?” 

Cas ignored him. Sam just sighed again. Sometimes they were like this, those two. They got on the wrong foot with one another and most of the day was shot because Cas either snubbed Dean or suddenly called him out on his bullshit. And Dean naturally just had to keep needling. Usually it passed this way for anywhere between 10 minutes to 4 hours depending on their patience before Cas abruptly left or Dean gave up. Then they sulked for a while. 

Sam was getting _really_ tired of it. Before he could bury himself in his menu, Cas caught his attention. Not on purpose, but what the angel was up to distracted Sam anyway. He was willfully wrinkling and unwrinkling his nose, concentrating on the surface of the table. After repeating the action once or twice, Cas gave a sharp sniff and reached up with one hand to gently pinch the edges of his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. These were obvious actions of a man with an itchy nose, but Sam had never seen Cas do something like that before. Was it even possible for his nose to itch? If Cas could feel pain, it stood to reason he could feel other things too, right? 

The nostril-pinching lasted for all of a second or two before Cas’s eyes gradually glazed, lips gently parting afterward. He redirected his hand to his wide trench-coat collar, flipping it up at the edge just as his eyes began to close and tighten at the corners. It was a deliberate action, as if Cas knew what was coming, which from Sam’s perspective seemed to be either a very long yawn or a dawning sneeze. By now Dean was watching too, staring openly, with an expression caught between bewildered and curious. 

Sam could hear Cas taking measured, shuttering breaths – very small ones – and his nostrils began to pulse. Carefully he turned his head toward his upraised collar, pausing with a soft noise in the back of his throat, before trembling in place with a quiet, punctuating little, _“EHschh!”_  

If not for all the build-up, to Sam it would have sounded more like a cough. It was sort of kittenish and whispery, feminine for sneeze standards, but it suited Cas, who was always terse, blunt, and discreet when it came to things. It sounded dry, sustained with only one soft, clipped vowel that was higher pitched than anything Sam had ever heard from the angel before. Dean’s eyebrows flew up on his forehead while Sam interjected. 

“Ble – ” 

Cas cut Sam off with a quick shake of his head, still with his eyes closed and carrying an air of anticipation around him. Sitting frozen, Cas at last gasped and jerked into the fabric of his coat again. _“EHsscht!”_

Then he sniffled, blinked, and turned back toward the table. His little sneezes had been so clean they hadn’t even left evidence against his collar. Dean stared at the angel like he had grown a second head while Sam made another attempt at politeness. 

“Bless you, Cas.” 

“Ah, is that what they say now?” Cas asked, perfectly composed as he contemplated Sam’s response. “Because I’m angel, this seems ironic.” 

“It _is_ kind of weird to bless you, but it’s good manners, so…” Sam shrugged it off with a chuckle. It was startling to see Cas sneeze for the first time, but if he was so dismissive about it, the act couldn’t be unfamiliar to him. Sam found himself wondering if angels sneeze often, though that seemed like an odd thing to ask. Cas nodded at him in response to the remark, even crookedly smiled. Dean’s gaze ping-ponged between them incredulously. 

“Wait,” the older hunter said. Both men turned their heads. “We’re just letting this go? Like, ‘oh, whatever, Cas sneezed, bless ya dude.’ That’s it?” 

Cas furrowed his brow, cocking his head. “Is there something else we should do?” 

Dean fixed him with a stern look. “Uh, well last I checked, that ain’t normal.” 

“Isn’t it?” Castiel looked at the brothers, now a bit uncertain. “You sneeze. Sam sneezes. I’ve sneezed many times prior to this.” 

Unable to reign in his curiosity, Sam asked, “You have?” 

“Of course,” Cas replied. “With a vessel I can indulge in any and every physiological response unique to the human body. On most occasions I choose not to, but there are a few reactions I allow from time to time.” He gave both Dean and Sam long, considerate stares before abruptly stiffening, bunching his shoulders. “If it bothers you, I can stop.” 

“No, no, it’s fine!” Sam quickly jumped in, waving a hand to illustrate just how needless the concern was. Cas had a history of intense self-sacrifice, and Sam could tell that the angel still suffered anxiety about past transgressions against the Winchesters. He didn’t want to mess up again. Sam knew how he felt, so he reached out and patted the back of Cas’s hand. “Cas, it’s fine. Sneeze, don’t sneeze, do whatever you want.” 

Now Dean still seemed really stuck on something, turning it over in his head until he gave Cas a mysteriously nervous side glance before gazing out the window. Sam sighed because he knew what that look meant. Cas sensed something too, judging by how still and focused he had become. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Sam knew it wouldn’t be the shoe Cas was expecting. Dean didn’t turn speechless unless he was blindsided completely. 

“Uh, so like… _every_ physiological response, huh?” 

Cas balked, perhaps uncertain as to if this would lead to mockery or a reprimand. “…Yes.” 

Dean pondered this information, then nodded. “Cool.” 

After that he started lavishing attention on his menu like it was the most interesting thing in the room. _Wow, Dean_ , Sam thought with a mental eye-roll. _Subtle._ Why he was even bothering to ask about that, Sam didn’t know. He was sure Dean remembered what happened when Cas watched the Pizza Man visit the Babysitter. They’d joked and cringed over that for weeks afterward. At the time, Dean had found it more hilarious than uncomfortable. Perhaps a little _too_ funny actually, given how often he’d bring it up and laugh about it. Sometimes he’d even ask, out of the blue, _Hey, you know_ , _I wonder if Cas ever watched another episode. Of whatever thing that was._ Like he’d actually been thinking about it. 

Sam had seen where that line of thought would eventually end. Apparently Dean was finally catching up. Annnnnd now it was awkward. Sam wanted to excuse himself from the table but couldn’t manage it before the waitress came over to take their orders. 

Sam got a spinach breakfast omelet with cranberry juice and a side of fruit; Dean got a Farmer’s Platter with all the fixings and a glass of coffee; and Cas ordered chocolate milk. They discovered pretty early on that even though it all tasted like molecules to Cas – mostly overwhelming and gross – there were some molecules that went down more pleasantly than others. To Dean and Sam’s amusement, sweets seemed to be the majority of what Cas would eat. Probably explained Gabriel’s obsession too. Maybe it was an angel thing. 

Sam started some idle chatter after the waitress left, mostly about a few cases they were following-up on and some more details about the state of Heaven. They talked about what Crowley might be up to and how Kevin was doing. He felt the buzzing tension melt away as the other two relaxed; soon they were wrapped into their own conversation about music again. It was less barbed this time because Dean had the chance to blabber confidently on the subject of his personal favorite bands and Castiel patiently listened to him. Sam had noticed over time that Cas made extra special attempts to smile at Dean, but could never tell exactly when it was appropriate to do so. Sam liked to watch Cas try, always a little hesitant, and then braver whenever Dean returned one. 

_Cute_ , Sam thought, both equally exasperated and moved. Still it was nice to see them talking more about things that weren’t death, destruction, or retribution. 

“Dean, I have been wondering,” Cas said as the waitress popped out of the kitchen with their food and began to make her way over. “Why would you call the genre ‘rock and roll’ when there are in fact very few rocks and very little rolling in such songs? It seems it should instead be called ‘blues rhythms with accentuated backbeats.’” 

Dean huffed a short laugh at that, grinning, before fondly informing Cas that he was a dork just before the waitress swept in to plate them. Sam leaned back to give her room, as did the others, but he noticed that Cas recoiled from the table with vigor. There was a brief flicker of expectation in Cas’s eyes while his expression grew weak, and then he obscured it with his hands, which he cupped over his nose and mouth. 

_“EHssch!”_ There was that same, quick sneeze again. Cas kept his eyes closed, waited, and then shook with another just as the waitress set down his chocolate milk. _“EHsccht!”_  

“God bless you, honey,” the waitress said, smiling down at a wide-eyed and rather surprised looking Cas. She reached into her apron and handed him a few napkins, which he hastened to receive. 

“Thank you,” he said. She gave him a patient _mmhmm_ before assuring they were situated and then walking away. Dean glanced over at Cas while picking up his fork. 

“You sure that’s all right?” 

Cas sniffled, a bit wetter than his first, and dabbed beneath his nostrils with a napkin before balling it up in his hand. “The sneezing? It’s nothing to worry over.” 

“Who’s worried?” Dean asked, stabbing into his stack of pancakes with more force than was probably wise. Cas’s eyes drifted down to the twines of the utensil, buried hilt-deep into the tower of flapjacks. Sam wondered if Cas could still read minds, or emotions, or something. He never said anything, but Sam suspected sometimes Cas knew more than he let on. 

“I think what he’s trying to ask is why is it happening now, and never before? Is that a bad sign?” 

Castiel redirected his gaze toward Sam as he lifted his glass of milk, sipping before answering. “I’m sure it’s merely something in the air that’s irritating the vessel. As I said before, often I will abort certain reflexes, but I am fond of the sense of relief after a sneeze.” 

The comment was sort of strange, yet coming from Cas, Sam found he didn’t mind. Dean folded into one of his beady-eyed, pinched, _the hell?_ expressions as he sawed off a hunk of pancake with the side of his fork. They all fell quiet after that as the brothers picked at their food and Cas sipped daintily at his chocolate moo. It was a companionable silence that lasted as long as they felt it should have. After some bites of his omelet, Sam paused to speak but Dean beat him there.

“So, Cas,” Dean said. Cas turned his head like a lark, his blue eyes very bright and wide. Even Dean just saying Cas’s name made the angel happy. That was kind of sweet, and Sam looked away toward the window to smile as he took a swig of juice. “What other human stuff have you tried?” 

“Human stuff?” Cas had to think about it. “Do you mean culturally?” 

“No, the… the…” Dean wrestled with his words, stuck on them somehow, gesturing around with his syrupy fork. “…The reflex thing.” 

“Oh, physiologically?” Zoning out on a point on the wall, eyes losing focus, Cas drew from a well of memories he had stored away. “I’ve tried almost everything.” 

Dean didn’t move for a second, then barked a startled, “What? When?” 

Cas gave Dean a woeful look, as if he was an adorable, but very unintelligent puppy. “Dean, this is not the first time I have taken a human vessel to walk earth. I’ve told you this.” 

“No you haven’t.” 

“I did,” Cas insisted, eyes starting to squint. “Earlier when I was choosing a song to play, I explained to you that I have seen music unfold since the dawn of human history. You called me a ‘priss’ afterward.” 

Sam tucked back into his omelet, unwilling to watch or be dragged into yet another couple’s quarrel. They’d been having a lot of these, many of them revolving around Cas’s annoyance that Dean did not listen to him. Which Dean really didn’t, to be fair, but Dean always countered with something like – 

“I didn’t know you were waltzing around getting close and personal! I thought you were watching it all on The Human Channel or something. In Heaven.” 

Cas sighed, a habit Sam swore the angel had picked up from him. “There is no television in Heaven.” 

“There was in my Heaven, remember? I had a TV. You talked to me on it.” 

“That was a personal Heaven, only occupied by human souls. Besides, it is not the business of Heaven to monitor the affairs of Earth as closely as you seem to believe.” 

When it came to memory and logic, there was no point in arguing with Castiel. The angel would win, and Dean, sensing this, quickly switched tactics. “Okay, well then what’s your favorite thing?” 

“My what?” asked Castiel. He had both hands around his cup of chocolate milk again. 

“You’re favorite human thing, out of all the things you’ve tried.” 

Now, _here_ was a dangerous question. Sam tuned back in, unable to stop himself. Because as stated before, Cas was a strategist. More than that, Sam had a feeling that Castiel sometimes played them for fools with his sad, innocent eyes and guileless speech. He wasn’t that familiar with modern human culture and interaction, but he _was_ older than dirt. There was a twinkle in his blue eyes that both Winchesters had seen before on several occasions – the most memorable being the night Sam stabbed him in the back with an angel blade and then Cas calmly slid it out dry. It was an ancient, knowing sort of look and perhaps Dean knew it too because he was seeming a little pale under the lights in the diner as he chewed. 

“My favorite human thing,” Cas said, holding Dean’s gaze with a razor intensity, “is kissing.” 

_Whelp,_ Sam thought, and scooped up another fork-full of egg. _At least he kept it PG._  

Dean breathed in sharply and accidentally choked on his food. He had to pound his chest, coughing, then gulp some coffee before he managed to breathe again. Apparently Cas too had his regrets, because as soon as the sentence was out of his mouth he was staring down at his lap. Sam could actually _feel_ the weight of tension around them, humming like a force-field. The silence could have lasted forever. 

But then Cas twitched, his eyes fluttered closed, and he drew a deep, fast breath. Both hands flew up to his face as he trembled in place, scrunching up with another _“EHtssch!”_

Sam split a grin as he chewed his food, endeared all over again. How Cas managed to be both stupidly lovable and vaguely terrifying he’d never know. Cas blinked furiously, eyes wet at the edges, still with his hands over his nose and mouth. 

_“EHtscch!”_

After that one, Cas made a soft noise under his breath. Almost like he was surprised by something. And then he did it again, still just as soft, except higher in pitch. Half a second later, he ducked his head with yet another sneeze. Dean, who up to this point had been fascinated by his pancakes and nothing else, glanced over. Two sneezes had been the pattern, and now there was a third. By the looks of it, there would be a fourth. Cas had his head down, expression obscured, but the stiffness in his shoulders and unwillingness to emerge his cover were illustrative enough.

“Bless ya,” Dean barked, voice a careful balance of mockery and concern. “Just how many more you got in there?” 

Cas didn’t answer, but he did finally uncurl himself to squint straight up at the ceiling, his nose rife with movement as his nostrils flared wide. He clenched his hands on his knees as he threw down his head with a much louder-than-usual, _“ **EHss** chht!”_ 

They were up to four now, and despite his reassurances before, Castiel gave Sam (who was directly across from him) a hazy yet distraught expression as he fell into the midst of another sneeze. This one seemed paramount, as if he’d been working his way there. 

_“ **EHschh** ’uu!”_ 

It was still delicate compared to Dean and Sam’s rougher, more vocal expulsions, but for Cas it was a grand effort. He sniffled repeatedly against a now stuffier nose, reaching up to rub one of his eyes. Once finished, he stared blearily into his chocolate milk before fitting his hands around the glass. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d say Cas was blushing. 

Dean zeroed on him like a sniper sight. “Everything still hunky-dory over there, Sniffles?” 

Cas flicked his gaze to the hunter beside him out of the corner of his eyes, shrinking into his trench-coat. “…perhaps that was a little unusual.” 

Sam hooked a half-smile while Dean snorted into his grits, scraping his fork across the plate to get the last of them up and into his mouth. Cas, pouting at his milk, continued. 

“After the third one, I attempted to abort the reflex to prevent more but…” He trailed off, thoughtful, then just slumped back against the booth with a very human-sounding huff of resignation. “I guess I’ve given into so many that I’ve lost the ability to block them entirely?” 

Both brothers shrugged in unison, neither an expert in angelically-inhabited-vessel physiology. Sam had never even known it was a subject that needed study. Did angels have textbooks about it in Heaven? Were they all just programmed with this innate knowledge inside them, upon birth? Conception? Just how did angels look when they were created anyway? The younger Winchester lost himself to such musings, swigging down the last of his juice as Dean nudged his own plate across the table with an air of finality. Cas gathered up a few napkins, tented them across his nose, and noisily blew. 

Of course the waitress chose this exact moment to swoop in, startling Cas again as she bent down to gather plates. “You catching a cold, sweetheart?” 

The angel fumbled with his make-shift tissues, lowering them from his face with a few careful wipes and a thick sniffle. “No, that’s not possible.” 

She quirked a grin, eyes mirthful. “Tough guy, huh?” 

Castiel didn’t know what to say to that, blinking at her as if she’d spoken gibberish, and Sam shook his head because even after all this time Cas still short-circuited when ladies flirted with him. Or maybe he didn’t realize she was flirting. One look at his brother and Sam thought, _Well, Dean does._  

“Yeah, excuse me,” Dean said, waving a hand to catch the woman’s attention and draw her eyes from the ruffled, timid angel. “We’d like the check.” He flashed her a roguish grin, leaning crossed arms on the table like this was a highlight of his morning, but Sam could see something deeper than that. And it had something to do with the dark-haired, gravel-voiced guy situated beside him. 

“Sure thing, sugar,” the waitress said, plucking another napkin from her apron and passing it wordlessly to Cas with a wink. He took it warily while Dean’s smile turned stale. Sam started fishing in his wallet as the woman sashayed away. 

“Why don’t I pay and you take Cas outside?” he suggested. “Something in this place might be setting him off.” And getting those two alone with one another for a few minutes might give them enough time to work through at least a fraction of their issues before Sam had to trudge out there and continue to deal. 

Dean and Cas shared a brief glance, coming to an unspoken agreement, and both of them started shuffling out of the booth. Sam’s gaze kept darting to the hand Dean had smoothed between Castiel’s shoulders, almost as if the hunter was trying to keep track of him. How they would manage to lose Cas in an uncrowded, dinky diner was beyond Sam, but then again they’d misplaced Cas many times prior. The angel had a tendency to wander, if not disappear entirely. Sometimes he died. 

At that moment, Sam found himself thankful for Dean’s hand on Castiel’s back. 

“Sam,” Dean said, and the younger Winchester snapped to attention. Cas had another few napkins pressed over his nose as he scrunched his face up to blow. Over the gurgling sound, Dean leaned toward Sam and emphatically gestured to the dessert display case by the register. “Pie.” 

To follow up this request, Dean gave his brother a winning grin, nodding as though this was his greatest pitch of the year. Sam rolled his eyes, but knew that Dean knew he’d buy it anyway. He watched the pair of them duck out, Dean’s hand sliding further down Castiel’s spine to guide the angel out, even opening the door for him. The waitress drifted back to the table looking slightly disappointed, accepting Sam’s (fake) credit card and his order of one pecan pie, then bidding him a good day when she returned his receipt and to-go box. Sam tipped her, wondering if Dean would have if he’d stayed behind to foot the bill. 

Exiting to the parking-lot, he was surprised to find Dean standing alone by the Impala, arms crossed, leaning against her trunk as he stared off toward the two-lane road. Sam approached with caution, uncertain as to what might have happened and if Dean was upset or not. He didn’t look over as the younger Winchester stepped up toward the car, holding the pie bag in one hand. 

“Where’s Cas?” Sam asked. 

“Some Heaven thing,” Dean replied, an edge to his voice that sounded more resigned than angry. He uncrossed his ankles and pushed off the Impala with his hands, perking up at the sight and scent of dessert. “What flavor?”

“Pecan.” 

He took the bag with eagerness, peering inside. Then he clapped Sam’s shoulder once with his hand before turning on his heel toward the driver side. “Classic.”


	3. What Dean Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey,” Dean barked, startling Cas into meeting his gaze. “Be straight with me.”
> 
> Sam snorted for some reason Dean couldn’t fathom. None of this was friggin’ funny.

Dean stared at the pie. The crust was flakey, the smell was heavenly, and it was still warm. Clearly, a work of art. Sam had even hacked out a piece to snack on as soon as they got to the motel, taking small bites over a napkin as he tossed luggage around. Dean stayed sitting at the tiny table by the window, watching it. Waiting. 

“Dude, if you let it get cold, you’ll be pissed later,” Sam warned, lips still covered in crumbs as he brushed his hands off over the room’s small garbage can. Dean eyed him, because _geez, excuse him for not laying in on the pie immediately,_ and Sam lifted his hands in surrender. “Just saying.” 

On any other day, Dean probably would have said something hilariously sarcastic, but right now he wasn’t up for it. Honestly, Cas had really bummed him out, flying off like that. He understood, really, but like… well, he’d gotten this pie, and Cas liked to indulge him by trying food Dean bought. So he’d thought they’d split a huge hunk down the middle and eat it or something. Maybe Cas would even make that scrunchy, slightly smitey face he wore whenever he didn’t like the taste. But … whatever, Cas didn’t come, so it’s not like it mattered. 

Dean sighed and started carving out a slice much more forcefully than he typically did. Sam tracked his movement from across the room, folding clothes. It was a Winchester silence, the kind that lasted for years. He could tell Sam wanted to speak – say something on the subject of pie or of Cas – but Dean refused to give him an opening lest Sam descend into chick-flick zone. But he could feel the tension rising, like a great big wave of potential, could see Sam’s shoulders squaring, his posture straightening, starting to turn around – 

“Dean - ” 

“No thanks,” Dean said, heading him off at the pass. Sam huffed but didn’t try again, so Dean relaxed back into his pie. It tasted just about as good as any other slice of pecan, which was to say _awesome_ , though it would have been more awesome with Cas around. Probably. 

Yeah, okay, so Dean had been getting used to Cas hanging out more often. They hadn’t really had that before. When they first met, Castiel - Angel of the Lord - had been the King of Dicks and spent more time kissing Michael’s ass than actually chilling down on Earth. Then he’d gone native, renounced Heaven, and spent friggin’ ages looking for Dad before falling into angel depression. They’d gotten a few nights out together during Armageddon, when Sam was being a little bitch, but those had been _last day on earth_ days, which sucked. Soon as they saved the world, Cas farted up to Heaven, became Super Cas, the Asshole Wonder, and secretly fucked over everyone for a while. Talking to him then had been annoying, horrible, and frankly hurtful too. After that, of course he’d lost his damn mind and if Dean had thought chatting with Super Cas was awful, he hadn’t been at all prepared for _crazy_ Cas. That shell of Castiel wasn’t the soldier or friend Dean remembered, and it was more difficult than ever to connect with him. Looking at Cas had been like looking at a shadow - one that was getting stretched and distorted by the sun. Dean couldn’t stop it, couldn’t fix it, and the helplessness turned into anger, as it always did. 

Purgatory was the first time Dean had Cas back. And damn, Dean had missed him. Beaten, battered, broken as he was, Dean was glad to have him solid and alive. Recovered from madness too, at least enough to where he could hold himself together during the bleak, endless nights in limbo land. Because it was killed or be killed back then, it was easy to forget about the personal space and the creepy sleep-watching and the boundaries Dean kept up because anything less meant pain. They’d stayed so close to one another; he’d been so fucking scared to let Cas out of his sight for even a second. Like he’d said, Purgatory was not a place for angels. 

And then Dean lost him. Or rather, Cas pulled away. Whatever, either way it hurt like Hell and Dean could say that from experience. He and Benny made it home, and Cas didn’t. It was worse every time, each death a little sharper, colder, in Dean’s chest. He knew Sam could tell. Sam could always tell. 

Speaking of Sam, Dean could see him coiling up, ready for a second strike. 

“Dean - ” 

_Whomf-wfff._  

It was a familiar sound, and Dean had grown more and more addicted to it over time. Not that he’d tell anyone that, ever. But it looked like he was saved by the angel again. The guy had impeccable timing. Though when he glanced over his shoulder, Dean’s _About time, you doof,_ morphed quickly into _Oh, shit._  

Because there was Cas, ruffled and sad and stoic as ever, but the left side of his face was decorated with swollen, indigo bruising. He had one arm crooked, his hand pressing firmly against a glimmering wound near his hip. He braced his other hand on the motel room dresser, taking measured, steadying breaths. Dean was on his feet and at his side in a second, Sam only a step behind him. 

Before anyone could demand anything, Castiel glared at Dean and grunted through a hurried explanation, presumably because he didn’t want to listen to Dean’s bitching. “I encountered a few hostile brethren while visiting Heaven. It is nothing of consequence.” 

“Nothing, my ass!” Dean gave Cas a little shake and watched his friend wince in turn. He only felt a little guilty afterward because the pain was his point. “You got angel-shanked, and your face is all messed up.” 

Cas flashed him a very unimpressed expression. 

“Can we talk about this _after_ Cas is sitting down?” Sam asked, spurring them into a clumsy dash for the solitary, stiff-backed chair in the room. After lowering Cas onto the seat, slumping him there, Dean kneeled to get a better look at the stab wound. It had to be from an angel blade; nothing else could have done such damage. There was a tell-tale blue glow of Grace slipping through Cas’s fingers. 

“Sam?” Dean asked. There were words in that question he didn’t have to say. 

“On it,” Sam replied, drifting away from Cas’s left shoulder to grab the first-aid kit they’d hauled into the room with the rest of their crap. Once Dean pried Cas’s fingers away from the injury, he was relieved to see the radius of the wound wasn’t too big. With angel mojo, it would heal fast. Even the bleeding had stopped, though that pesky Grace didn’t quit shining. Dean wasn’t sure how safe it was to touch, so he took Cas’s hand and capped it back over the wound, pressing it there and holding. 

“Dean,” Cas growled, and he looked up at Dean with his patented pinched expression - the one that meant he was more pissed about this situation than he was pained. “First aid is unnecessary. It would only be a waste of your supplies - ” 

Sam interrupted him before Dean could. “Cas, it’s no trouble. Walking around with your Grace pouring out doesn’t seem like the brightest idea.” 

While his brother squatted down beside the chair, Dean leaned over Cas to start getting his clothes out of the way. First the dumb trench coat, which he folded back at the lapels. Then the suit jacket, which Dean always forgot Cas actually had on. Last the oxford shirt. As Dean began working the buttons open one by one, he thought to himself that Cas wore too many friggin’ clothes. Still, it was hard to actually imagine him wearing anything else. 

Actually now that Dean was getting a good look, Cas had nice skin. Technically, it was Jimmy’s skin, but Cas had taken good care of it. He was shorter than Dean or (definitely) Sam, but was still like six feet tall. Wiry, built like a runner. It was hard to tell under his bulky trench coat, but Cas was holding it together well. Dean found himself green around the edges because he was putting on some pudge as he got older. Too many burgers and not enough jogging, Sam would say. Cas probably had some kind of angel fat zapper that got rid of excess flab, lucky guy. Not that Dean would mind a little bit of a tummy. 

And _whoops,_ Dean had sort of been staring at Cas’s half-exposed torso for a few seconds too many. _Play it cool, play it cool,_ he thought. _No one noticed. Nothing going on here, just a guy helping out his buddy._ Dean didn’t know why he was even worried about it. It’s not like Cas cared. Sam might give him a hard time later, but that was just his little brother being a douche. Once the buttons were finished, Dean smoothed the fabric away from Cas’s skin. His hands touched Castiel’s stomach, and that may or may not have been intentional. 

Cas flinched. Both brothers paused. 

“Did that hurt?” Dean asked. Cas shook his head, gaze trained on Dean’s fingers. Sam got back to work right away, totally just writing it off. He had already peeled away the shirt fabric to inspect the wound - which Dean _should have_ been doing - but he found himself too distracted by Cas’s face. 

He knew Sam – pretentious _bastard_ – thought he was a moron when it came to reading Cas, but that was only because Dean played his cards close to his chest. Actually, he was a World Cup Championship Cas Reader, and had a pretty damn good grasp over what the angel was thinking and feeling most of the time. The guy had an iron-clad poker face twenty-three hours of the day, so yeah, Sam could shove it up his ass if he thought he was the only one who could tell the differences between Cas’s nuanced expressions. It wasn’t as easy as Sam tried to make it look. 

And right now Cas was looking decidedly...weird. Some of it was pain and annoyance, but there was something else. He wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes properly, a clear sign he was trying to get away with a lie. But Dean wasn’t so sure what Cas could be lying about - unless of course he was hiding more injuries somewhere under his clothes. 

“Hey,” Dean barked, startling Cas into meeting his gaze. “Be straight with me.” 

Sam snorted for some reason Dean couldn’t fathom. None of this was friggin’ funny. Cas just stared at him, foregoing his dodgy expression for a flat one. 

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to insinuate.” he said, hissing a little as Sam dabbed away some blood and tossed on the antiseptic. Dean knew Cas damn well knew what he was saying, but he chose to drop it. The weird look was gone from Cas’s face and it wasn’t as if he’d be able to hide an injury from them. Not with Dean on Angel Patrol. Don’t put it past him. He’d do it if he had to. 

So he sat by as Sam cleaned, dressed, and fixed up the wound, all the while watching Cas to see if his expression changed during the process. He never flinched a second time, though he insisted on re-buttoning his shirt by himself like a big boy. Dean was only a teeny tiny bit disappointed. Because... Well, it was nobody’s business why. Not even his own. 

Dean rubbed his hands over his face, feeling his knees crack as he stood straight again. Sam gave Cas a friendly slap on the shoulder, mindful not to jostle him too much. 

“You’re all set, buddy,” he said, and Dean wondered briefly to himself just when Sam and Cas had gotten to be on such good terms. They didn’t have the best history (understatement), and yet here they were, perfectly friendly. “But you should probably take it easy until your mojo kicks in.” 

“Yeah, and stay the hell away from Heaven,” Dean added. Because hello, logic. He was sure Cas was only upstairs because he was so guilty about destroying the place during his Super Cas phase. The Winchesters weren’t the best examples of people who did things for the right reasons, but guilt was never a healthy motivator. Dean knew that much. 

Cas ignored them both, struggling up to his feet only to almost crash right back down if Dean hadn’t ducked in and got a hold of him. They had to juggle for a second, Cas sniffling near Dean’s ear and Dean grappling at his coat to get him totally upright. His balance was poor, which set a chill down Dean’s spine. 

“Shit, man,” Dean muttered, finally getting a handle on Cas’s unruly limbs and setting him straight. Sam left them to it, abandoning them in favor of organizing the luggage again. “Cas, you sure you’re okay?” 

“Just drained,” Cas said, and suddenly he looked completely exhausted. It was one of his best talents, one which Dean was sure he’d picked up from the Winchesters: the ability to put on a game face and then collapse later, when it was safe. Cas went on as Dean escorted him to the bed. “I did not want to kill anyone, so instead I... ran.” 

Dean heard the shame in his voice when he said that. He squeezed Cas’s arm because hey, sometimes retreat meant you got to live another day. And with how many close calls Cas had - like the Winchesters, he had a dying problem, maybe that was a contagious condition - Dean was overjoyed the guy had turned tail from a fight. 

“It took a long time to lose my pursuers,” Cas was saying, sort of slurry, sounding like he was getting a stuffy nose too. Which was a combination of strange and sort of cute. “I dodged them in Siberia and had to run on foot in Wukan to be sure they did not find me again. That’s a small fishing village in China, by the way...” 

Cas continued to sleepily explain the chase, and Dean realized Cas only got this chatty when he was really worried about something. It was rare for him to talk so much. He talked all through the walk to the bed, all through Dean laying him down, pulling up the covers, ruffling his hair. He’d seen Cas low on Grace before, and the little guy would bounce back by morning, Dean was sure. 

Sniffling again, rubbing his nose on the edge of his sleeve, Cas squinted up at Dean for a moment more. “I’m sorry I could not eat pie with you,” he said. The statement completely blindsided Dean. It made his stomach flip over. 

“O-Oh,” he said, shrugging. “No biggie, Cas. It’s just pie.” 

“But you were thinking about it,” Cas mumbled, sounding actually broken-up about it. He lolled his head to the side and looked at the table where the pie still sat. Dean was sure this soft, apologetic Cas was just him being sleepy and hurt. The only time he ever got this sappy was when one of them was dying. And even then, usually he was sort of pissed. Now he was decidedly gloomy. It bothered Dean. 

“Don’t sweat it, man,” Dean said, reaching down to pat Cas’s hand on top of the covers. “We’ll get some pie tomorrow, okay?” He didn’t ask how Cas knew he was thinking about it, didn’t think about Cas worrying about the damn pie while outrunning murderous angels around the world at break-neck speeds. Didn’t pay attention to the way his heart squeezed with that knowledge. 

Cas’s tiny, hesitant smile pulled strings in Dean that he didn’t know he had. So he smiled back, turning around immediately after because if he fell any deeper into those blue eyes, he’d drown. Sam never said a word from across the room, instead choosing to set up his laptop at the table and start clicking away. Dean didn’t know whether this was a good sign or a bad one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, third chapter a little late, but it's up! I don't feel very confident about this one because my Dean POV is sort of weak xDD. I have to be in a certain mood to write him, I think. Hope you all enjoyed anyway!


	4. Cas Wakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could not afford any more oversights. Not a single one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never, haha! Let the angst begin. (Also, I posted this so late. There are probably so many typos OTL)

When Castiel woke, he did not feel better. He did not expect to, but it would have been a pleasant surprise to greet the morning feeling less tired than when he fell asleep. As it was, he had to blink several times before his vision cleared and still there was a cotton-like quality between his ears that promised nothing good. He actually jumped when Dean popped into view, grinning wide. 

“Morning, sunshine!” he said, voice unforgivably loud. Castiel realized his sour mood from yesterday had not yet dissipated. Dean noticed too, because his smile got bigger. “Uh oh. Is somebody grumpy?” 

“I got angel-shanked, Dean,” Castiel griped. He was momentarily surprised by how rough his voice sounded, and the brief flare of pain when he talked. Swallowing caused a similar discomfort. “I think I have a right to be ‘grumpy.’” 

“Well, maybe some pie will cheer you up,” Dean said. He had a glint in his eye that Castiel was immediately wary of. “You got all mopey about it last night. Grabbing at my shirt sleeve, mumbling. Definitely not your usual shtick.” 

Cas burned hot from the tips of his ears to the span of his collarbone, and by the time he realized he was blushing, it was too far along to stop. Castiel did not know what to say in this situation, unable to hold eye-contact. He had been so tired from the battle yesterday that he could not recall what he had been doing or saying after the brothers tended to his wound. Dean’s descriptions painted the image of a very pathetic angel, of which Castiel endeavored not to be. After a tense silence, Dean snorted. 

“What? S’not like I caught you with your pants down or somethin,” he said. That remark did not improve the situation at all, and Dean’s eyes got even wider. “Holy shit, are you _blushing?”_  

Castiel funneled every ounce of his angelic fury into a glare that had the hunter laughing. Dean waved a hand at him and said, “All right, all right, don’t smite me.” 

Years ago, Cas would have thought Dean was actually asking him for mercy but today he knew better; Dean only meant it in jest. He meant many things in jest, constantly. Though his life was so often burdened by the demands of a dying world, the Winchester had to take pleasure where he could. Castiel glanced around for Sam, didn’t find him, and decided he it was not a worry. Dean would not be so buoyant if his brother was in danger. 

Sitting up, Castiel put a hand to his side and cringed. The injury was mostly repaired, but still sore. He didn’t need to look in a mirror to know the discoloration on his face had faded too. His clogged nose and sore throat were persistent annoyances. And if he reached his energies deep enough, there was something odd about his Grace. It felt… tired, just as he was. Not unlike the fatigue he experienced during the Apocalypse, as he fell. The memory made him shudder. 

It was only when Dean gripped his shoulder that Castiel realized he had been watching him the entire time. “Hey,” Dean said. “Seriously, you feeling okay? I thought your mojo would take care of the boo-boos.” 

“It did.” Castiel was not lying, because his Grace healed some things. Just not everything. Dean gave him a look like he didn’t believe him, but Castiel swung himself out of bed anyway and straightened his clothes. They were wrinkled and blood-stained, so he pushed a wave of Grace through the threads to cleanse them. The reflexive itch at the back of his nose gave him pause, and before he knew it, Castiel was sneezing toward the floor. 

“ ** _Ihs_** _sh’uu!!”_

“Bless you!” Dean said, with much more enthusiasm than he did in the diner. Castiel wondered if this was because they were alone, or because he was in a good mood this morning. He should be glad Dean was in such high spirits, but for some reason it only made Castiel more frustrated. Passing his sleeve beneath his nose with a sniffle, he grunted what Dean could accept as a thank you. And now that he was on his feet, Castiel tried to dismiss the hazy tightness around his head. It was incrementally increasing, tighter and tighter, more uncomfortable over time. He estimated it would be throbbing within the hour. 

“If I didn’t know better,” Dean was saying, zipping up his clothes bag. Castiel finally noticed he was dressed in his ‘FBI threads,’ the garments he wore to impersonate government officials. “I’d say you were coming down with a cold.” 

Castiel had been around the Winchesters long enough to know what that meant to them: absolutely nothing. He’d seen them muddle through worse than a rhinovirus to complete a case; both brothers had a strange compulsion with denying weakness. Though that was something all three of them had in common, Castiel supposed. Self-sacrifice, stubbornness, a thirst for free choice. Just how many of these things were part of Castiel before he met Dean? Despite the millions upon millions of years prior to Dean Winchester, it was hard for Castiel to remember who he had been back then. 

Cas got so stuck in his thoughts that he didn’t notice Dean moving toward him and suddenly Dean’s hand was against his forehead. It was rare, very rare, that Dean initiated any skin to skin contact. Castiel knew this because he remembered it each and every time Dean cupped his face, or took his hand. He placed needless significance upon these moments lately, and this more than anything else annoyed the angel. Dean neglected to treasure these gestures as much as he, and while usually it was of little consequence to Castiel, this morning he could not help flinching away from Dean’s touch; he regretted the action immediately afterward. 

Dean kept his hand aloft, eyebrows lifted high. “Touchy,” he snarked, but Castiel could feel it in the ripples of the Winchester’s soul – he was unsettled. True to his nature, Dean moved on without probing commentary. “Well, your temp’s normal I think. Can angels get allergies?” 

Shoving his hands in his pockets and shaking his head, Castiel swiveled on his heel to vent another sneeze. “ ** _EHssh_** _’iu!”_ They were coming over him quickly, getting stronger, and the heavy, liquid sensation in his sinuses would not abate. He sniffled repeatedly, unintentionally triggering another tickle that spiraled out of control. “ _E **Hss** cht!!”_

“Dude, manners?” Dean complained nearby. “Angel germs aside, it’s gross.” 

Yes, Castiel knew this. It is why he had exhibited polite protocol in the diner. These particular sneezes had come over him too quickly for cover. The tired itchiness all through his nose and down his throat lingered, keeping Castiel unsatisfied and now uncomfortable with the accumulation of congestion. Whatever he was succumbing to did not yet seem sinister, but it was (as Dean would say) _a pain in the ass._ After a particularly gurgling sniffle, the hunter spoke up again. 

“Uh-uh, none of that,” he commanded as if talking to a dog, which automatically pissed Cas off even more. He had both hands cupped over his nose, self-conscious. More than once Castiel had cried while occupying a vessel and gotten a runny nose as a result; he did not need Dean’s guidance on this matter. Dean snatched tissue after tissue out of a box on the nightstand and offered them, saying, “Blow, don’t snort.” 

Castiel glared at him over the tent of his hands; his voice sounded scratchy and blunted to his own ears. “No,” he said, and elaborated when Dean’s eyes narrowed. “I dislike the feeling. It’s…unnatural.” 

Dean made a noise caught between amused and not impressed. “Cas, there’s a lot of unnatural shit in the world. Clearing bats out of the cave isn’t one of them.” 

“Doing what with bats?” 

“Never mind, just…” Dean shoved the squares of tissue paper at Castiel so the angel had to fumble for them. “…use ‘em. Sam’s gonna be back any minute with breakfast and then we gotta get going. If you wanna ride along, shape up. I’ve got a ‘no annoying noises’ policy.” 

Castiel had the tissues stacked, folded, and secured over his nose before he realized Dean invited him to join the case. While not unusual, the offer brought with it a comfortable, familiar warmth. Instead of speaking, Castiel noisily emptied his nose as testament to his acceptance. Dean rolled his eyes, though there was a smile playing in the corner of his mouth that disappeared when Sam entered the room carrying colorful fast-food bags and wearing a suit similar to Dean’s. His eyes honed instantly on Castiel, who admittedly felt sheepish with tissues pressed to his face. 

“Hello, Sam,” He knew he sounded strange, his voice bottled by congestion and apt to sink deeper if his throat insisted on pestering him. Sam nodded a greeting, refraining any remarks on Castiel’s current predicament but shooting Dean looks between his words. 

“Hey, Cas.” Here he paused to exchange a brief stare with brother, who only shrugged and held out a grabbing hand toward the food. Sam handed it over as he continued to speak. “Glad you’re up. How’s that stab wound doing?” 

Sam’s guileless, casual tone of voice often cajoled Castiel into a sense of security, which could be dangerous. With Dean, the angel asserted a constant level of vigilance. But with Sam, it was different. The younger Winchester had a talent in getting Cas to speak freely – much more freely than he often should. 

“It still aches, but only when I lift the arm on that side,” he said, balling up the used tissues in one hand with a final, stuffy sniffle. Sam’s eyebrows turned up a little, quietly sympathetic. Castiel did not realize his faux pas until Dean froze with a breakfast biscuit only centimeters from his lips. 

“Hang on,” he said. “You’re saying you haven’t healed up?” 

Castiel wanted to kick himself. These were exactly the conversations he tried to avoid with Dean, and he had just _barely_ managed to nullify the conversation about his cold symptoms. The hunter was so cagey about his own health, one would think he could understand Castiel’s resistance to this kind of talk. He remembered times in the past when he imparted his worries or weaknesses to Dean, and they were met either by disappointment or disdain. 

His fading Grace during the Apocalypse. His failure to secure Sam’s soul when raising him from Hell. His absenteeism during the war, his betrayal with Crowley, his months spent amnesiac, months spent comatose, and months more spent insane. His plan to stay in Purgatory was a more recent error; it would appear he could not even repent correctly anymore. 

With so many blemishes to his reputation, Castiel could never risk another grand mistake. There would be no more invitations to hunts, no more friendly conversations, no more of the things Castiel had grown so terribly fond of lately. And worse still, if the Winchesters turned him away he would have truly nowhere to go. Heaven was a place for atonement, not for home. Even if his brothers and sisters welcomed him readily into the Host, Castiel would find no satisfaction. He wanted to be here with his boys, where he hoped to one day belong. 

He could not afford any more oversights. Not a single one. 

“Cas? You with us?” Dean’s voice startled Castiel into the moment, causing his wings, sore from so much flying yesterday, to flutter. Not that the brothers would be able to sense such a thing anyway. Both of them were staring at Castiel wearing identical, wide-eyed expressions. “You’re setting off some red flags, buddy.” 

Castiel struggled to recover, fighting through that tight, cottony haze in his head. “I’m fine,” he insisted. Neither looked convinced so he fumbled for an excuse, any excuse. “M-My Grace is still adjusting. From my time in Purgatory.” 

“That was a while ago,” Sam pointed out, infuriatingly logical. “And you didn't have any issues with it until now, right?” 

Dean nodded along, pinning Castiel with a strong Winchester Scowl. He had grown used to it over the years and it had never intimidated him to begin with, so Cas simply glared back with whatever might he could muster in his fatigued state. The urge to sniffle in that moment angered him, but it was unavoidable. His nose was still runny, despite the relentless clogged state of his sinuses.

“I did not have reason to heavily exert myself until yesterday,” Castiel explained, improvising completely. He was veering off ‘half-truth’ and steering toward ‘lie,’ which he hated to do, but this was important. “It is likely my Grace is drained more than usual because I am…out of shape.” The last part was embarrassing to say, yet necessary for his ruse. Honestly Castiel had not started feeling winded until a day or two ago. Dean, however, seemed pleased by this. 

“What, like your Grace is getting flabby?” he asked. He turned to Sam with a smirk only to be met with a mildly exasperated expression from Sam. Dean’s face fell and he finally took a bite of his biscuit. If possible, he did it defensively. Castiel sniffled again, rubbing the edge of his used-tissue ball against the underside of his nose before hurrying his elbow to his face. 

“ ** _Ihts_** _shh’u!”_  

“Okay,” Sam said as he reached a long arm over to the tissue dispenser and plucked a few. He handed them over to Cas with a clap on the shoulder afterward. “But if it gets worse, tell us. Hopefully this headcold thing will clear up once your mojo recovers.” 

“Yeah, just grab the whole friggin’ box of Kleenex, Cas,” Dean advised, mouth full of biscuit, egg, and ham. “Sounds like you need it.” He glanced at Sam and jerked his head toward the door: the signal for _let’s go._ Sam passed him the keys before walking to the table for his laptop, packing it away with all the corresponding cords. And just like that, Castiel’s ailments were forgotten as soon as they were noticed, written off as problems that would solve themselves. 

It was Castiel himself who orchestrated this, but he did wonder as he tucked the tissue box under his arm and pulled the motel door shut behind him with a lungful of coughs tided behind closed lips and clenched throat…He did wonder if there would ever be a crisis Castiel could not solve on his own. More importantly, if there ever was such a crisis, would Sam and Dean – Dean felt especially critical to this hypothetical situation – help him with the same vigor with which they helped one another?

Like many things Winchester, Castiel did not know.


	5. Sam Shops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas still had his tissue box tucked under his arm, the corner of his eyes and edges of his nose brightly pink. He looked tired. Other shoppers were giving him a wide berth and Sam couldn’t blame them.

The case was one of those weird, wildcard mysteries that took Winchesters off the beaten road and into places they didn’t really belong. Kent, Connecticut was only half an hour out from the motel they were staying at, which was just as well because Kent was so small and intimate, it would be too flashy if they made base at one of the inns or Bed and Breakfasts in town. It was rare they hunted so close to the coast and Dean complained that they were burrowing into a dusty, useless corner of Earth, but Sam liked it. 

It’s colorful, quiet, friendly, tucked away from evil and untouched in the way fruit off the tree is. Kevin was still translating the tablets, Heaven and Hell have been keeping to themselves – Sam saw no reason why they couldn’t have a quirky, lighthearted little case out in Connecticut. They picked the perfect season too. Autumn was on its way, so the wind nipped and the trees had on their Sunday’s best. Kent’s famous for its foliage; they were surrounded by yellows, reds, and oranges. During the ride in, Cas stared out the window with wider eyes than Sam had ever seen on him. With a smug smirk, Sam wondered if they had finally found a place Cas hadn’t visited before. Dean bitched there would be too many tourists to wade through. 

His brother’s annoyance aside, Sam had a good feeling about the case too. As a town, Kent was historic but not creepy, and the particular mystery plaguing it wasn’t exactly creepy either. In fact, it was the kind of case Sam adored and Dean despised – _no evidence of monsters_ mixed with _who the hell knows?_ No violence, no blood, no rituals, omens, disturbances of any kind. The only thing that won Sam the argument to come here was that over the past 2 months, exactly 10 accounts were filed of people losing things. And not just misplacing them either. Apparently items (and in one sad story, an old beloved dog) floated away. Literally floated away. One moment someone would be fiddling with something, the next, it would gently wiggle out of their grips or rise from its place and drift off into the sky. 

Evil? Not obviously. Dangerous? Possibly. Weird? Hell yes. Without Bobby around and with Cas off his game, they didn’t have a lead on what could be causing it. Sam thrummed with excitement while Dean groaned with dread. All was right with the universe. 

Also, this was a perfect opportunity to get Dean and Cas some…alone time. Much, much needed alone time. More for Sam’s benefit than anyone else’s because he needed a break from Harry and Sally. Both of the guys were tense for various reasons, most of which had to do with Castiel’s chronic sniffles, and Sam knew they both wanted to get out of the car. Sam did too, honestly. It hadn’t been a long drive, but long enough. 

Castiel snuffled again, sharply, and coughed reflexively afterward. The leather squeaked when Dean tightened his hands on the steering wheel. 

“Would you give it a rest back there?” 

“I can’t,” Cas growled. And Castiel with a stuffy nose would never get old. He was completely congested, which sucked for him, but it made his already-deep voice even duller. As a result, his deadpan responses just sounded even more ridiculous. “My nose won’t stop…running.” 

He sounded unsure about the verb there, like he didn’t know if it was the right one. Dean carried on without missing a beat, though Sam could pick out a little discomfort in Dean’s voice. This conversation was getting a bit motherly and his big brother was bashful about it. 

“Well then _blow it_ , like I told you to.” 

“I did, but you complained about that too,” Cas replied. “So I can either continue to sniffle, or routinely use tissues. Do you have a preference?” 

Yeah, Sam was definitely staying out of this one. 

“Don’t get smart, cowboy,” Dean menaced, jerking the car to a halt at a stop sign and whirling around to glare at Cas properly. “You’re not actually blowing your nose. You’re just wiping, which by the way isn’t clever at all because _this one_ used to pull that stunt when he was six.” He jerked a thumb at Sam here, who shoved Dean in the arm because he didn’t want to play Malcolm in the Middle right now. At least Cas had the decency to ignore him. 

“I told you,” he said. “I don’t like the way it feels.” 

“Does it look like I care?” 

 _Yes,_ Sam thought. _It looks like you care a lot._ And honestly, this whole fight was sort of stupid. So Cas didn’t want to blow his nose, so what? Yeah, the constant sniffles were annoying but this thing would probably pass by tomorrow. Anyone walking up to this would think Dean wanted to needle Cas for no good reason. Sam knew better than that: Dean was worried. 

But Sam also knew Cas was raw from Purgatory. Cas was fresh off the crazy train murder spree, dumped on Earth before he was ready, and whether Dean could tell or not, he chose not to acknowledge any possible vulnerability. Sam could see it, though. And his heart dropped a little when Castiel lowered his gaze to his lap. His fingers drifted to the tissue box – now almost half empty – and started pulling out a few squares. Sam noticed the tissues were the cheap, cardboard-y kind that ended up chaffing your nose raw, and made a note to pick up some of the good stuff when they stopped for supplies. 

Dean turned around again without a word, shoulders still hunched while Castiel did his best to clear his sinuses. All it really did was make him cough a lot.

\- - - - -

True Value All-Purpose Hardware Store was not a chain Sam was familiar with, but it got the job done. It was strange to shop in Fed suits, but it was stupid to change in and out of regular clothes just for a supply run. They were low on some of the consumables, like salt and shells, and it was always nice to have bulk toiletries stuffed deep in the trunk of the Impala. Not every motel provided the best service, and sometimes they had to squat when times were tough. There was also a man named Harvey who worked here that lost his car to the ‘gravity problem’ (as Dean called it) while tuning up his Mustang, so this was killing two birds with one stone. Dean decided because clearly cars were his thing, he’d be the one to track down their witness and chat. Castiel and Sam were left to shop. 

They stood side by side in front of a tarp aisle, comparing sizes, materials, and prices. It was about time they got a new one, as their current tarp had holes. Cas still had his tissue box tucked under his arm, the corner of his eyes and edges of his nose brightly pink. He looked tired. Other shoppers were giving him a wide berth and Sam couldn’t blame them. He himself wasn’t sure if Cas was contagious or not. As he quietly eyed Castiel, he saw his face collapse into a grimace while fumbling for a tissue. He cupped it to his face just in time. 

“ _hh’ **ITSSH!** ”_ 

“Bless you,” Sam said automatically. Castiel miserably shook his head, still doubled over, and turned even further from Sam as he trembled with another.

“ _hhk’ **TZSCH!** ”_

They both waited and when another didn’t come, Sam sighed. “Bless you, man.” He reached to pat Castiel on the back, but stopped short when Cas shrunk away, averting his eyes. Hand still raised, Sam frowned. That wasn’t like him at all, to dodge contact like it might hurt. 

“Cas?” he asked, and didn’t need to ask more. Castiel understood but instead focused on the momentous task of wrangling more tissues from the box. 

“It’ds dothi’g,” he said, his voice thick. Sam crossed his arms and waited for Cas to finish tending to his nose. Only after the angel had rubbed the skin there an angry red and shoved the trash in his trench pocket did Sam speak again. 

“Cas, I said I wanted you to tell me if this got worse. Remember?” 

“It’s not worse,” he said. He sounded exhausted even though he had spent all that time unconscious. Had that counted as sleep? It was hard to tell with angels. “When I was pursued by my brethren I think I may…may have strained my wings.”

Oh, shit. That sounded kind of serious. Sam couldn’t remember if Cas had ever mentioned his wings before, let alone injuring them. “Your wings?” His eyes wandered, trying to look for them even though they had never been there before. Cas regarded him with a bland expression. 

“You cannot perceive them and there is nothing to be done about it.” He turned back to the shelf, rising to the tips of his toes to reach for a particularly large product. “Besides, this is not the first time and will likely not be the last.” 

Knowing Cas had hurt his wings before and never told them – even that his wings _could_ be hurt at all – rattled Sam. He didn’t hold it against Cas. It wasn’t in the guy’s nature to voice weakness unless it was at the cost of someone else. And as well as Sam could read him, angels were some of the most inscrutable beings in the universe. Castiel had his tells, but what went through his head was mostly a mystery. Sam just hoped he knew he could come to them, no matter how small or large the problem. He thought Cas had always known that, yet maybe…hm. 

“Hey, Cas?” 

Castiel looked up from the package in his hand to squint at him. “Yes, Sam?” 

Neither Winchester was oh-so-great at _feelings,_ but Sam squared his stance and prepared to try. “I just… well, you have to know that you can talk to us – ” 

He stopped short when Cas started to cough, longer and harder than he had been in the car, finally going so far as to bend double as the dry, barky sounds took his breath away. He dropped his tissues, dropped the tarp. Mindful of his back, Sam locked a hand around his arm instead and helped him straighten afterward. The way Cas swayed on his feet, blinking, wasn’t all that encouraging. He abandoned ship on what he’d been trying to say and instead clung to the wreckage of Castiel’s poor health. 

“This thing is really kicking your ass, isn’t it?” Sam muttered, gathering up items off the floor. Cas rubbed one of his eyes, swallowing, and Sam could tell by watching how prickly his throat felt. 

If they hadn’t cut all the gauze off Cas’s wound that morning and checked to see it was nearly healed, Sam would have been more worried about the angel’s immediate healing capabilities. How had Cas even gotten sick in the first place? This hadn’t happened when his Grace was fading. Well… maybe they just needed to treat it like a cold. Bedrest, liquids, the whole shebang. It was the perfect place and time for it, with a case like this. Digging in his pocket, Sam pulled out a twenty but then thought better of it. He crumbled it in his hand and thrust out the shopping list. 

“Cas, you mind covering the rest of this?” he asked. Sam had his own mission now. Cas took the list with a mildly bewildered expression. 

“I can, but where are you going?” 

“Gonna go find Dean,” he said, tossing words over his shoulder as he marched down the aisle. Castiel stood slouchy and confused in the middle of the aisle, eyes narrowed as he watched Sam leave. “Follow the list, okay?” 

And as soon as he turned the corner, Sam grabbed a shopping basket and started browsing. A hardware store wasn’t the best place for cold and flu products, but it was better than nothing. He stocked some energy drinks, a six-pack of tissue boxes, and a pack of cough drops. Then he walked into the personal care aisle and ran straight into his brother. Who was also holding some energy drinks, a six-pack of tissue boxes, and a pack of cough drops. They stared at one another until Dean started turning red. Sam tried really, really hard not to smile. Because if he did, he knew Dean would – 

“Shut up, don’t even start,” he griped, taking the liberty of dumping all his stuff into Sam’s basket. He even snatched some sanitary wipes off the display by his elbow and threw them in. “I could hear him hacking his lungs out halfway across the store.” 

“Yeah, I was going to say. He should probably take it easy until this-…whatever it is blows over.” 

Dean shook his head with a scoff, his posture stiff because he was still embarrassed about Sam catching him. “Right, because he’s so good at relaxing.” 

Sam smiled despite himself; he could actually see that happening someday, with the way their lives were. Both Winchesters turned in sync and cycling back through the store, Dean letting Sam lead the way. 

“Mustang Guy have anything to say?” 

“Not really,” Dean sighed. He kept a sharp eye on each aisle they passed even though Sam was sure Cas hadn’t left the tarps. “Just that one minute he was under the hood and the next he was watching his car rise like a balloon and drift out the door. Actually grabbed it and hung on for a few feet, crazy bastard.” But even as he said this, they both knew it was no less than what Dean would have done. “But he did say his garage felt sort of supercharged. Like getting too close to a live wire.” 

“Huh.” Previous attempts at research on ‘gravitational manipulation’ had yielded only Marvel and DC superheroes (some of which Dean could tick off his fingers without looking, which he was smug about), but with this new information they could dig deeper into any lore. “Well, better than nothing.” 

When they got to the tarp aisle, Sam was relieved and amused to find Cas still dutifully comparing tarps. He’d come to realize most angels had a somewhat precocious and thorough nature, so window shopping with Castiel would probably be an endless experience. Cas had what looked to be every model of tarp the store offered all lined up on the floor at his feet while he studied them. Judging by the configuration, Sam thought he might have organized them by size and price as well. Maybe even durability. 

Dean strolled over with his hands in his pockets, standing by Cas’s left shoulder and stared at Cas while Cas stared down at the tarps. Sam could tell his brother was assessing the damage, how sick their friend actually was. It seriously wasn’t that bad – Sam had checked – but try telling that to the mother-henning monstrosity that was Dean Winchester. 

“Dean, what do you think?” Cas said, scanning the options. “The reinforced Stransport, or the all-purpose Ozark Trail?” He bent down and scooped up a dark green, heavy duty tarp boasting a 100% waterproof guarantee, and a military-camouflage patterned one of similar size. “The Ozark is cheaper, but the Stransport appears to be of superior quality. Also it is a lovely green shade, don’t you think?” 

Cas turned them both over in his hands, but paused as his eyes fluttered. His nose twitched and just as Dean took a step to the side, he was overcome by a strong sneeze. _“ **EHT** SSH!”_ Sam winced as he saw the green tarp take a direct hit. Castiel looked vaguely dizzy afterward, and still like he needed to sneeze but couldn’t quite work the feeling out. During the lull, Dean snatched both tarps out of his hands. He tossed the military-camouflage on the floor with the rest. 

“Green it is,” he said, flinging the package at Sam who only barely maneuvered the basket in time to sink the dunk. “You germ it, you buy it, my friend.” 

“S-Sor…” Castiel’s voice drifted away as he took another big breath and flung himself forward. _“H’ **GZZS** HH’ue!”_ 

 _“Bless_ you,” Dean said. He raised a hand toward Castiel’s back, presumably going in for a pat as Sam had tried minutes ago. 

“Easy!” Sam called out. When Dean paused, he elaborated. “His wings are hurt.” 

“What?” Dean rounded in shock onto Cas, who bitchfaced at Sam like he’d snitched him out. Sam raised his brows, challenging, because he had learned his lesson about being a lying asshole when it came to his brother. As much as he knew Cas didn’t like Dean on his case, keeping secrets wasn’t a grade-A plan for him either. Speaking of his brother, he continued to grill. “How long you been hiding that?” 

“This morning,” Castiel breathed, already cupping another tissue to his face as he shook again. _“EH **GZZS** H!”_ They sounded heavier, more visceral, and a young mother with two children shooed her kids to the next aisle when Castiel paused to blow his nose. Ugh, man, whatever this was, Sam could tell it was shaping up to be a doozy. He picked up Cas’s slack to move the conversation along. 

“He said they were probably sore from flying yesterday.” 

Dean scrutinized Castiel’s shoulder area, like he might catch a glimpse of wings if only he looked hard enough. Surprisingly, Cas looked uncomfortable with the scrutiny. He lurked a wary gaze over the seam of the tissue held to his face, angling his back toward the wall. Dean snorted. 

“What, don’t like staring so much when you’re on the receiving end?” 

After wiping his nose and shoving the used tissue in his pocket (which was full to bursting with them by now), Cas lifted his chin a little as his gaze slid to the side. “It’s…significant among angels, to stare at another’s wings.” 

Dean gave him an odd look, and Sam too was unsure of what to make of that statement, but the moment didn’t last. Dean clapped his hands with a sharp sound and set the ball rolling. “Okay, well, wing lesson aside, you need some TLC and we’ve got a case to crack.” 

Castiel stepped forward, blue eyes instantly alert. “Yes, where should we start?” 

“Not you, snotrod.” Dean gestured to the basket Sam was holding. “We’re loading you up with ammo and then you’re fighting off this cold back at the motel.” 

Predictably, this did not go over well. Cas bristled, tightening in a way Sam had never seen him do before, and the mix of emotions that passed over his face, through his eyes, was too complicated to discern from sight alone. 

“I will do no such thing,” he said. Croaky though his voice was, Cas remained adamant. “I have come to help you on this case and that is what I will do.” 

“Actually, no,” Dean said. “You dropped in after lunch yesterday because Cousin Dick and his Goon Squad tailed you so hard and long you couldn’t see straight. You came for a safe place to heal up and that’s what we’re giving you.” 

“But…” Castiel faltered, which was rare for him. To lose his words like that. He looked down, searching the assorted tarps on the ground for something to say, before Dean’s eyes softened. In an unexpectedly intimate gesture, he slipped a hand at Cas’s jaw. 

“They’ll be other cases,” he said when Cas met his gaze, startled at first but growing calmer with every word Dean said. “Sit this one on the bench and we’ll field you next game, okay?” 

They shared one of their lengthy Eyesex moments until Cas upped the volume to eleven and shuffled forward a few steps. In an incredibly awkward but very nice moment – Sam had to fight not to clap for Cas because he was so damn proud of one of them manning up – Castiel pressed their chests flush and dropped his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. Nobody moved. Dean’s hands hovered near Cas’s arms and Sam swore his brother was about to shit himself. He moved his mouth but for a second nothing came out. 

“B-..wh...” Dean took a moment. “Uh, okay.” He took a moment more, trying to figure out if this was an uncompleted hug, a plea for help, or if Cas was going to pass out within the next few seconds. Sam knew exactly what this was and politely stared down the other side of the aisle. After a few seconds, Dean asked, “Cas?” 

Cas spoke, almost too quiet for Sam to hear. “It’s… I felt lightheaded, forgive me.” 

It was a lie, but not one Sam would call him on. More silence. He could feel Dean look at him for a second, the stare heavy on his back, and then there was a tentative shift of fabric. When Sam chanced a careful peek over his shoulder, he saw Dean hugging Cas. One of his hands threaded into Cas’s hair. Sam allowed himself just a nanosecond of indulgence before looking away again. Because really. _Finally._  

Dean said, “We’ll get you some aspirin and something to eat. You could probably use some grub if you’re feeling this lousy.” 

Cas said, “All right.” 

Sam cleared his throat, and the footsteps behind him let him know it was okay to turn back around. None of them acknowledged any of it, just chugged through the rest of the list (and Sam made a quick run to the register to purchase Cas a water bottle and a granola bar while they shopped), rung up their items, bagged them, and pushed out a cart into the parking lot. 

Only to be met with this startling visual: a hoard of people were gathered and pointing, shouting as they watched a car – specifically a black 1967 Chevy automatic Impala, 327, 4-barrel, V-8 engine, 4-dr, hardtop – drift lazily through the air toward the clouds. 

Sam felt abrupt relief at the fact the Impala was already too high for Dean to grab onto. 

Castiel raised a hand to block the autumn sun, watching the black form grow smaller and smaller as he chewed his granola bar.

Dean shouted like he was getting his soul ripped out of his ass. _“SON OF A BITCH, **MY CAR-!”**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Impala.


	6. Dean Mourns his Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's eyes never left Dean’s face, and Dean finally placed the look: it was how Castiel had looked at him when Dean had almost said yes to Michael. And somehow that was even more shocking than his car zooming into the stratosphere. Because, where the hell was that coming from?

Dean knew there was a bone-deep reason he hated cases like these, besides all the researching, confusion, dead-ends, and wild goose chase frustrations. Because no matter how bloody or violent a run-of-the-mill monster hunt got, at least those nasty sons-of-bitches didn’t _fuck_ _with_ _his car._ And now Dean hoped more than anything this gravity beast had a face so he could punch it. He’d already started waving his gun around, ready for a fight, which pissed Sam off and caused Dean to lose his firearm privileges until he calmed down. There was no furniture to throw or glass to break, so Dean had to improvise.

They had watched Baby’s ascension, seen her get sucked up into the sky slowly enough to track yet fast enough to disappear before Dean could figure out how to stop it from happening. It was after Dean stopped screaming and gesturing with his pistol that he turned immediately to the nearest street-light – forearms and forehead to the aluminum – and started to regulate his breathing. Any other time he would have snatched Castiel by the tie and choked him until he Superman-ed himself after Baby and brought her back safe and sound. But he hadn’t suggested it because –

“ _hh’ **NGXT’** chh!”_

– of that. Dean loved his car but he didn’t want Cas taking the Angel Express when his Grace had the hiccups. Not to mention his wings were strained. He knew Castiel would probably do it without hesitation. Much as it reassured (and more recently unnerved) him, Dean noticed that Cas put himself in mortal danger almost constantly for Winchester requests both big and small. He was ashamed to say it, but in the past, Cas had always seemed so unbreakable. He’d torn through Hell to yank Dean out. ‘Scuse him for treating the guy like a titan. But several deaths, injuries, and disappearances later, Dean didn’t see Castiel that way anymore. Hearing him sniffle and sigh behind him, just feet away, reminded Dean that the angel-ace up his sleeve was someone just as deserving of protection and mercy as anyone else. Probably more so. Maybe almost as much as Sammy.

It’s what told him to hang onto that trench coat, what drove him on a mad search in Purgatory, what made him freakin’ _hug_ Cas right there in the damn hardware store in front of Sam and anyone else walking by…

But whatever, he was getting off topic here. They had his car to save. It really was his luck to have his _baby_ beamed up to the Enterprise when there were plenty of other less awesome cars sitting around. Then again, maybe that’s why she was chosen. Could be possible this alien monster bastard had good taste.

Dean thudded his forehead against the cradle of his arms again, teeth clenched. They had next to no leads, no means of transportation, basically all of their shit had been stolen along with the car, they were low on cash… How the hell were they going to find her? It’s not like he had some kind of Impala Sixth Sense, as cool as that would be. And the town was so damn small that stealing a car would get reported immediately, especially with all the weird ‘theft’ going on lately. Dean had just known this place was rank, this case was dumb, and they should have stayed the hell away from it.

“This is your fault,” he groaned to Sam, who was hovering by his right shoulder like Dean might collapse any moment from a stress-induced aneurism. Honestly Dean didn’t feel too far from it. His car was gone and unlike the previous occasions she’d been lifted or totaled, it felt like there was no hope of getting her back. She’d _flown the fuck away_. And Dean wasn’t about to fly after her even if he could. That demonic plane hunt from years back still haunted him as often as Hell did.

“How is this _my_ fault?”

Dean lifted his head to glare full on, gesturing with one limp hand to the mass of autumnal foliage all around them. “Well, somebody bitched and moaned his way to Connecticut so he could appreciate the ‘seasonal atmosphere.’ And let’s not forget all those friggin brochures you kept waving around.”

“Yeah, because me wanting to take a few days off from hack-and-slash cases means I’m responsible for the car getting spirited away.”

“You never have her best interests at heart, we all know that. I’m sure even _she_ knows it.”

Sam lifted his arms up in a gesture that was both _I don’t know!_ and _Come at me, bro._ “Dean, you’re being ridiculous! Can’t you see this is a clue? It sucks, but we can use it to our advantage to the bottom of all this.”

It was true, distilled logic, diluted from Dean’s messy stew of emotion. He couldn’t argue that comparing the Impala’s disappearance to that of the other items might shed more light on the case than anything else could, but it still burned Dean deep to know his car could be gone forever. That was his home. It was a piece of him, and of Sam. It was all he had left of his father. In a way, Sam’s brush-off felt a little like betrayal. But then again, he’d never worked on her the way Dean had, with his back to the concrete or his hand under her hood.

“We’ll get her back, Dean,” Sam said, a little softer and with enough caution to both reassure Dean and embarrass him. Injecting even that much tenderness into the moment ended it entirely, and Dean shrugged Sam’s hand off his shoulder when he straightened up. He could mourn her loss once he had his baby back, tires to the road and motor purring, where she belonged.

“Yeah, but what’s the plan until then? Hitch-hike?”

“The town’s pretty small,” Sam said, squinting out over the clustered, New English streets with all its manner of quaint downtown hobby shops. “We can walk some of it, and we’ve got enough money for cab fare.”

Dean remembered with some relief that they left most of their luggage crap back at the motel, since they’d planned to stay a while. It was a ways out of town, but at least they hadn’t lost everything. They could dump the crap they just bought back at the motel, even if paying the fare and wasting the time would be an annoyance. It’s not like they had any other choice. The silence stretched a moment longer, and neither brother expected it when Castiel spoke up from the side.

“I can transport these items back to the motel,” he rasped, regarding the brothers with that same familiar expression of grave promise. “It will save time.”

Sam offered a doubtful scrunch of his brows while Dean crossed his arms and gave Cas the once-over. He found himself cataloging the tired and unhealthy details of Cas’s face. He definitely wasn’t improving, that was for sure. Eyes bruise-y and red-rimmed, nose chapped and vaguely runny. Posture slumped. Cas looked so much smaller today than he normally did, and Dean wondered how he’d ever been able to fill all the space in those baggy clothes. His color was totally off, the blue in his eyes bright in a way it shouldn’t have been.

It was getting harder and harder to reign in those mushy ‘mother-hen’ instincts that liked to deploy themselves whenever somebody Dean cared about was injured or sick. Poor Sam had been on the receiving end of them too many times to count, and he’d even accidentally unleashed them on Bobby once (which didn’t end well, thanks for asking). Dean had managed to mostly keep a lid on it when it came to Cas because babying Cas would just be…weird. Yet something inside him felt dangerously close to snapping. He’d already cracked his resolve by hugging it out with Cas in the camping aisle; it wouldn’t be long before the levy broke completely.

Dean wasn’t sure what would happen if it did, and it scared the hell out of him.

“I don’t know, Cas,” Sam was saying. They watched the angel shiver as an errant, chilled breeze moved past them. “Your Grace, your wings... Doesn’t seem smart to blow your batteries on this right now.”

Cas’s sleepy eyes hardened like flints of opal, narrowing even as he struggled to keep his trembling to a minimum. Without asking or explaining, Dean unfolded one arm and rested the back of his hand against Castiel’s forehead. The angel didn’t jerk back from him this time, merely letting his wet gaze to lose focus and rest on Dean’s chest while they both waited. Gauging temperature by touch was fairly inaccurate and didn’t take much time, but even so Dean intentionally let the moment linger. He didn’t know why at first. Only after Castiel began to relax his shoulders, sinking into the touch, did Dean realize why he’d subconsciously waited.

“Still no fever,” he muttered, and he hadn’t meant for his voice to be that quiet. He cleared his throat. It felt like they were locked in time, encased while the rest of the world kept on going, distant and strange from beyond the glass.

Castiel stayed quiet, eyes folding closed with a thick sigh. And Dean _may_ have turned over his hand, and _may_ have moved his thumb over one of Cas’s eyebrows for just like, one whole second. Not even that. It was surprisingly soft. The moment was over, however, when Cas got that twitchy, expectant look on his face that Dean had seen on him way too often.

“Okay, _not_ on me,” he said as he took his hand back and slid a safe step to the side. “Not on me, please.”

Cas jerked forward with a resounding sneeze, barely managing to catch it into a wad of tissues he’d yanked from the brand new box wedged under his arm. Dean winced at the damp, strangled sound of it, and settled a hand on Cas’s lower back when he started to cough. The brothers shared a look and Dean knew they were on the same page. He rubbed circles on that spot, patting him here and there to try and add a more masculine spin to his somewhat motherly behaviors. Sam looked out toward the street and the fact Dean knew he was masking a smirk made his voice gruff.

“Look, you wanna help, we get it. But I said you were benched and I mean it.” He gave Cas one particularly hardy thud on the back, and immediately regretted it when the angel staggered forward with a pinched expression. _Wings, right. Shit._ Dean hurried to sprinkle more reassurances, to make sure Cas knew it was okay to have a day off and no one would give him the third degree.

“Geez, sorry…but seriously, see that’s more of a reason to take it easy. It sucks to work a hunt injured, and if it turns south, you’d be shit in a fight right now, Cas. Me and Sammy got this. We’ve been hunting for a long ass time, and did just fine before you came along.”

Castiel shot him a sharp look then, and while his face was nearly blank, Dean could tell he’d said the wrong thing. What exactly was wrong about it, he didn’t know. He glanced at Sam for help or insight, floundering as he tried to fix it. “So, uh, I mean… well, you know, it’d be okay for you to just relax. Get your strength back. You’re always burning the candle at both ends, man. It’s not like we need you running errands or hunting with us.”

Dean started to panic when Castiel’s expression soured further into something that wasn’t entirely anger, but mostly. Why did he always have to be so stubborn? Here Dean was, giving him a nice little out, and he was turning his nose up at it. When Cas raised a sleeve instead of a tissue to wipe at his nose, Dean almost snapped at him. Sam stepped in before he could take the breath to do it.

“Cas, what Dean’s _trying_ to say is – ”

“I know what Dean is trying to say,” Cas said. His eyes never left Dean’s face, and Dean finally placed the look: it was how Castiel had looked at him when Dean had almost said _yes_ to Michael. And somehow that was even more shocking than his car zooming into the stratosphere. Because, where the _hell_ was that coming from?

Sam eyed the two of them until finally Castiel broke the stare with a thick sigh, gazing coolly off across the parking-lot as if the conversation bored him. “I will stay behind with the supplies, at the motel.”

Great, now he was pouting. _He’s spent too much time around Sam,_ Dean thought as a pulled out his phone to Google a local cab company. Whatever, if Cas wants to get this bent out of shape over Dean being considerate, then see if he ever tries it again. Only now did Dean recall why he it was best to keep his caretaker tendencies under lock and key – they irritated people (also angels) and made Dean feel like a fool afterward. Worse still, judging by Sam’s very pissed glances at Dean while he popped open a pack of cough drops for Cas, they weren’t done talking about this.

 - - - - - - -

Three hours later they had gotten a very moody Cas set up at the motel with cable, throat lozenges, and an army’s worth of tissues; had spoken to three separate victims about the disappearances of their respective items; and still were no closer to finding Baby than they were three hours before. His FBI shoes were starting to pinch his feet from all the walking up and down cold streets, and Dean could feel the argument before it even began.

“So, what’s your deal with Cas today?” Sam asked, as casual as if he would ask what they were grabbing for dinner. Dean huddled further into his jacket.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Or at least he’ll pretend like he didn’t. That worked for a handful of seconds before Sam’s obnoxious staring got to be too much. Dean shrugged as dramatically as he was able while still bundled up in his layers of clothes. “What?!”

“You hurt his feelings,” Sam told him, and Dean was reminded of that moment in the diner during that Eve debacle. He’d called Castiel a baby in a trench-coat, which admittedly had been pretty funny. This wasn’t funny at all.

“Dude, I did not,” he said as they turned the block in sync. “Cas is a big boy. He’s just cheesed I didn’t let him tag along. You know him and his righteousness act.”

“Because according to you, ‘we don’t need him,’ right?”

Dean stopped short and so did Sam a step later, both of them scowling and refusing to buckle first. “I never said that.”

“You did.”

“But I-…you know I didn’t mean it like that, I was just…” He shrugged again, deflecting. These conversations never got easier, especially when they were about Cas. In the beginning, Castiel had been the thing Dean had but Sam didn’t. Growing up, the two of them had shared everything together. There was nothing Dean wouldn’t give Sammy.

But Cas was kind of the first real person they hadn’t shared, not completely. He wasn’t Bobby, or Charlie, or Kevin, or Dad. He was Cas, and what he meant to Dean was not what he meant to Sam. And Dean knew what he was to Cas was not what Sam was to Cas. It was different. He couldn’t explain it, he didn’t want to explain it, and he preferred to deal with his and Cas’s shit alone without the prying mind of his brother. Not that he could articulate any of that to Sam. 

“I know that’s not what you meant, but does Cas?” Sam challenged. “Because to him I’m pretty sure it sounded like you don’t want him around.” 

Dean shook his head, appalled. “That’s stupid, that makes no sense.” But even as he said it, he didn’t feel sure. He’d never actually told Cas, in those exact words, that he needed him. Not just needed him around for help on a hunt or to fight a Big Baddie, but needed him around in life. As a friend, or…family. Dean had never given it much thought; it simply _was_. How Cas could have missed the memo was beyond him. “He knows I want him around…” 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Sam said, dripping with sarcasm. Dean tightened the fists in his pockets. “Cas is great with emotional subtlety and nonverbal cues. It’s not like he’s from another realm or anything. And we’ve both done a great job hanging out with him when we’re not saving the world or killing monsters.” 

“Shut the hell up,” Dean growled, his response automatic. It came from annoyance, self-consciousness, and a worried confusion. Sam was pointing out all the invisible flaws in Dean’s relationship with Castiel, and Dean didn’t want to have to look at them twice. But he knew that he would. Oh, he would. For the rest of this walk he’d boil in his head as the guilt slithered through him, a snake he’d grown used to over the years. He was familiar with its strike, its venom, and the coiling suffocation if could inflict. Sam would do as Dean asked – he’d shut up. And he’d leave Dean to himself as they walked, which was all the punishment and reflection Dean would need. 

From then on and after, Dean kept his eyes peeled for a quick-shop or bar every time they turned a new street. He never did find a single one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long~! Apologies for typos, and I hope the quality isn't too bad. I've been busy getting back into the groove of school and haven't had much time to write QwQ. Thank you as always for reading and for your wonderful comments! (And Puds, I hope especially that you are continuing to enjoy this! xDD)


	7. Cas Gets Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And after all he had done – all the wrong he had brought upon the world – Castiel wondered if maybe this was God telling him it was time to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: WAAAAAAAAAAAH~ Thank you all for your patience! (Especially you, Puds!). School is kicking my butt so I've been super slow about this update. Plus I was a little worried about how it would go over. I'm starting to try and get a little more into plotty things LOL. So, *ahem*
> 
> SMALL WARNING: There is a new character introduced here, of my own design, and Cas shares a moment with this character but know that this is a DESTIEL FIC, so everything's totally platonic and dumb and Dean's gonna swoop in next chapter and bestow much needed tsundere loving upon his bae. I hope this isn't too weird of a turn for the plot x'DD. This is me trying to be clever =w=''

Something was wrong.

All throughout the car-ride into town, the shopping venture, and the disappointing ascension of Dean’s car, Castiel had done his best to ignore it. It was not simply the collection of physiological issues he was having – his sore and runny nose, congested sinuses, searing throat, persistent chills, and unconquerable fatigue – that were begging for his attention. There was something else too, something deeper and more concerning than any combination of the above.

Castiel’s grace was cooling.

He’d heard of this phenomena before when serving Heaven. While rare, it did happen, usually to weaker angels under extreme stress or stronger ones whose grace had been through a harrowing ordeal. Castiel supposed he fell under both risk categories, given his recent history. But this condition had largely faded from memory. As far as Castiel knew, no angel had contracted it for millennia. Honestly, he’d completely forgotten about it and had not considered it as a possibility until some of the more obvious symptoms had manifested.

First was the bone-deep chill. Over the course of the day, it had burrowed lower than simply the surface of his skin, or even the core of his vessel. Once he felt it permeating through the essence of his true-form, Castiel knew it more than a human affliction. Now that the Winchesters were gone, he allowed himself to shiver endlessly, earnestly, his vessel reacting the only way it knew how. No matter his reflexes, there would be no way to warm up from this. His grace itself was getting colder, and he could not protect himself from that.

The second symptom was his slow loss of powers. His downhill slide had gone from plodding to plunging over the course of the afternoon, and now Castiel could not even summon enough gracial energy to sense what was outside of the room. He’d long since lost abilities here and there since coming to serve the Winchesters, and his isolation in Purgatory had truly weakened him. Heaven allowed him only the most minimal thread of connection to keep his grace from fading away, but now it was doing it all on its own. Castiel was not sure he could even be considered an angel right now.

And the final symptom he had yet to encounter, and quietly worried about when it would come. Castiel had only read about it, heard about it from older angels when he was just a fledgling foot-soldier. According to the stories, as the illness progressed and the victim’s grace continued to cool, it would eventually become cold enough to lose its cohesive quality. Meaning, Castiel’s grace would soon flake apart. Pieces of it would start drifting away. And it was at this stage that an angel was in terrible trouble.

In Heaven, Castiel could have flown to the healers’ garden and recovered. It might have taken a while, and he likely would have been suspended from duty for an annoying span of time, but he would be alive. Right now, hunted and grounded on Earth, Castiel had no hope of surviving. The sickness was such an ancient one that he could not remember what sort of medicine he needed, if any. The knowledge was lost to him. Similarly, he was not confident any books on the lore would uncover information on the disease. Perhaps Bobby might have had something in his impressive library, but he was no longer alive to look for it. It was doubtful an angel would assist them, and Castiel loathed to ask someone like Crowley for help.

And after all he had done – all the wrong he had brought upon the world – Castiel wondered if maybe this was God telling him it was time to die. That at last he had repented enough, sacrificed enough, to be forgiven for his sins. Or maybe he had not, and this death would be yet another punishment along a line of hundreds after. There was no way to know and the uncertainty scared Castiel, as it always did. It never got easier, facing a void. Before Dean, everything had been laid out for him in schematics, predictable and easy to follow.

Castiel sighed, closing his eyes to burrow into his pillow with another shudder. _Dean._ Despite how cold he was, he still felt the thrum of hot anger dart into his gut. Apparently Dean didn’t need him? Well, Castiel could think of one or two times Dean had needed him in the past. Particularly those years he had been rotting in Hell. Or all those hints Castiel had dropped while still under the sway of Heaven, which ended with him strapped to a chair for re-education regardless. Also that tense confrontation in the Green Room, shortly before he was blasted by an archangel and spent almost a year floundering and powerless. Castiel regretted none of this – was always proud of his decision to side with Dean – and yet was it so much to ask that he be granted even an ounce of respect or gratitude for his past actions? Then again, the transgressions he committed shortly afterward may have nullified all his good deeds…

Ah, his head hurt too much to think about it. Though somehow, Dean’s dismissal hurt more. While Castiel knew he had no right to irritable about it, he couldn’t stop the pain. There would be no greater honor than to stand with Dean all his human life, and shepherd his soul safely to Heaven when the time finally came. Not that he deserved such things, but to know Dean might not think so either wounded Castiel in places he couldn’t see. Didn’t even know were there until recently.

But it didn’t matter now that he was dying. It was better that he knew it was all in folly, a fool’s dream. At least if he expired (permanently this time), he would not have to endure the loneliness that would come if Dean ever banished him entirely.

His hands twisted in the sheets as a particularly violent shiver shook the bed and stole his breath away. How selfish would it be for him to impart these wishes to Dean, before the end? Would he be angry to know just how badly Castiel wanted to… to…

Castiel sucked in a deep, shaky breath, and let it go. The feather-soft warmth that ghosted over his lips surprised him. He opened his eyes in time to see a puff of brilliant white-bluish smoke – translucent and ethereal – dissipate in the air. It felt hot as it exited, leaving an even stronger chill in its wake. Castiel slapped a palm over his mouth, bringing with it the sheet he had wrapped up in his fingers.

A shred of his grace.

It was happening faster than he thought.

The shivering was constant now, his muscles tired from it. Sniffling, Castiel pushed up on an elbow with the intent of grabbing more blankets in some futile effort of preserving warmth, but before he could get up the door swung open. Castiel paused, frozen, unsure of what he would say to either Winchester, whoever it turned out to be.

To his shock, it was neither of them. It was a stranger. She had dark hair, messy and in ringlets around her shoulders and back, as if recently undone from a bun or barrette. Her eyes were smoky, her smile soft, her body confident as she leaned against the door to hear it snick closed behind her. Castiel could not place this woman in the sea of faces he had met through the years – not human or angel or otherwise. But there was _something_ about her; the fog in his head made it hard to discern.

“Who – ?” he began to ask, interrupted by a painful cough that shook him almost as hard as the tremors did. His throat ached, yet he could not stop; he capped a hand over his mouth again not because of the germs, but to keep any loose fragments of grace inside. Halfway through his fit when his chest and lungs began to throb, Castiel closed his eyes and opened them again when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

The woman was holding a glass of water, offering it to him. “Drink up, sugar. Deep breath first.”

Bewildered, Castiel obeyed. Fighting for one satisfying inhale, she helped him bring the edge of his glass to his lips and he drank. It was cool against his burning throat, even though it still stung going down against the raw, inflamed tissue. She kept tipping the glass, encouraging him to drink until the glass was nearly empty, and once it was over, Castiel felt just a little bit better, if not exhausted. The woman eased him down onto the bed, tucking him in, settled on the side of the mattress like she had all the time in the world. Castiel stared at her, blinking, wondering if it was possible to be delirious without a fever.

She quirked a smile. “Don’t recognize me?” she asked, then playfully loomed over him with a purr that had Castiel craning further into his pillows. “Tough guy?”

The moniker turned a switch and suddenly Castiel remembered. “The waitress from the diner…” he rasped, nearly whispering because of his throat. How could he have forgotten? Her hair was different, yes, but looking at her again, this was definitely the woman who had served them at the diner yesterday outside of town. Now Castiel found himself a little worried. This was often how Sam or Dean ended up at the wrong end of a gun, by underestimating a woman. And with Castiel so weak, there was no way he could fight even a human right now, let alone something beyond that.

She must have noticed the panic in his eyes because she smoothed a hand across his brow with such care it could only be genuine. Castiel unconsciously leaned into the touch. So warm, she was so warm. He jerked with a strong shiver, and with a short sigh, the waitress stood and retrieved the comforter from the other bed and draped it over him before sitting again. With two fingers, she pressed gently against his temple.

“Think harder, Castiel,” she said. “We didn’t meet on earth.”

Frowning, Castiel sniffled and shivered and tried to recall a deeper memory. There were so many to sift through, and given his energy levels, it was likely Castiel would not manage it before he fell asleep. The coughing had tired him out, as had the day’s travels, and his illness was descending more quickly now that he had such little strength left. Even though it had been a while since he was last in need of rest, Castiel remembered the siren song of catnaps and he wanted one now.

His eyes fluttered open, first inquiring then totally floored, when the waitress slipped off her shoes and slid under the covers with him. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her chest pressed against his spine, and she sealed one warm hand over his brow. She spoke softly, friendly, with the familiar ease of greeting an old friend.

“You shouldered a great burden for me, once,” she said. Her legs tangled in his, and despite the knowledge that he should be struggling or at least concerned, Castiel only felt confused. The shivering slowly abated with her heat slotted against him, infusing his clothes. It’s when she squished against his shoulders that he started with an epiphany.

“Atlas,” he croaked, trying to shift so he could see her face. “Atlas, son of the Titan Iapetus and Clymene.” Castiel paused when he considered the considerable breasts cushioned against him. “You are…not as I remember you.”

Atlas chuckled into his neck, her breath hot against his skin. It made Castiel squirm with a reflex he didn’t know he had, and he huffed when she tightened her iron-band grip around his arms and chest. He didn’t feel trapped, merely subdued. This was Atlas, one of the few gods he could call a friend, and Castiel was unafraid.

“It’s a long story, Castiel,” she said with a sigh. When Castiel continued to fuss, stiffly shrugging against her grip, she maneuvered him so they could face one another in bed. They stared, studying each other. It was Atlas who spoke first. “It looks like we’ve both changed.”

Castiel squinted, well aware of Atlas’s tendency to poke fun at others in ways they did not recognize. She reminded him of Dean in that way. “It was before the birth of Christ since last we saw one another,” he reminded her. “That is long on Earth and still longer in Heaven.”

Atlas continued to search his face, and Castiel nearly blushed at the intensity of her fondness. He’d forgotten how earnest their friendship had been, beyond the casual bonds of angels or the silent, self-sacrificing relationship he had with the Winchesters. Atlas had never once been shy about her esteem of Castiel, which honestly, could get very embarrassing even when he thought he might have deserved it. If only she knew of his most recent sins. Her voice snapped him back to the present.

“Yeah, you stopped visiting,” she said, without malice. “So I decided to come find you.”

“What of the celestial spheres?” Castiel asked, honestly curious. They had been her mission for centuries upon centuries. A sudden thought came to him, and he narrowed his eyes. “You did not coerce someone into shouldering the burden and then leave, did you?”

Atlas rolled her eyes. “You think that less of me?” She flashed him what Castiel could identify as a coy look, though there was no intent behind it. There never was, and that was simply the nature of Atlas. “I came back for you that one time, hun.”

“After several decades.”

“I’d been carrying them for like, _a million years_ at that point, Castiel,” she pouted, and the angel fretted she would begin whining. It was especially annoying when she whined. “Cut me some slack.”

Opening his mouth with the intention of lecturing, but that ever-lingering itch crested like a rolling tide and he just barely managed to duck toward his pillow before shaking the bedframe with a sneeze. _“eh’ **TS** CHH!”_

The pulse of heat against his lips and the fabric alerted him to another lost wisp of grace.

He gasped, dreading a second sneeze, but the urge retreated before he could commit. Atlas rubbed her hands along his arms, holding him close, and when he shifted to look again at her face he was faintly surprised to find it so serious.

“Just what did you do to yourself to catch something like this?”

Castiel was sure Atlas wouldn’t want to know the answer, or perhaps wouldn’t believe him. Angels weren’t meant to endure what he had endured, feel the things he felt, and stay healthy. He was a cat who barks, a fish on dry land. A bird with broken wings. Honestly, when he really thought about it, it was no mystery to Castiel why his grace was giving out.

When he didn’t answer, Atlas moved her palms to his sides, spreading more heat through his body. Blinking, Castiel realized he had stopped shivering and was laying still. “Are you…?”

“It’s not much, but I got enough juice left in me to do _something_ for you.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, neither plagued by the need to reminisce, catch up, or fill the silence. Those were human tendencies, and Castiel could infer Atlas’s situation easily enough. She would not be the first god to walk Earth because their relevance dwindled. It was likely the celestial sphere shrunk or vanished as her mythology collapsed. They had been such beautiful structures, despite how much she detested them. Castiel had carried them for a short span of time, and marveled at their swirling, starry masses. They were not of Heaven’s creation – born instead of something else entirely – and yet he could find it in him to appreciate their elegance.

He could feel himself drifting, but Castiel cracked open his eyes as another thought came to him.

“You…” he said, breathing deep and slow. It was strange how quickly they had fallen back into friendship, no matter how long it had been since they had seen one another. Castiel had heard humans possess a similar ability when it comes to one another.

“Me?” she asked. He was staring at her collar bone, where she had tucked his head as she held him. Whatever dregs of power she still had were keeping him much warmer than the blankets. Even so, he managed to muster a little bit of annoyance on behalf of the eldest Winchester, whom he knew would be miffed should he discover the truth.

“You stole Dean’s car.”

“Always the sharp one, Castiel.” He sensed rather than saw her smile. “I’ll return it to him. _Maybe.”_ She squeezed him once, then relaxed, voice dropping to a lower volume. “Just get some sleep, okay? You’ll get through this.”

Castiel thought, _No I won’t_ , but didn’t dare tell Atlas. It seemed in bad taste. And the call of dreams was too strong anyway, even if most of them turned into nightmares in the end.

He fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: TOO WEIRD?? Forgive meeeee. Case fics are always a challenge for me. Next chapter is the Winchesters coming back home, and there will be some fun hurt/comfort~ As always, please comment if you have time to tell me what you think and I hope to see you all around for the next chapter :DDD. Thank you~!


	8. Sam Worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something icy-hot trickled into Sam’s stomach, the worst kind of fear. Pausing to stare fully at Castiel for the first time since entering the room, Sam saw what Dean had suspected the moment he opened the door: Cas was white as a sheet, a little blue around the lips, and completely still. Scarily still. Sam’s hand darted automatically to check his pulse and he gasped at the temperature of Castiel’s skin. It was so cold, and the longer Sam kept his fingers there, the more unnatural it became. He could barely detect a pulse, not totally sure there even was one. Castiel both felt and looked frozen.
> 
> He looked dead.

Sam kept his hands in his pockets and his mouth shut. The walk back to the motel sucked. Completely. On top of making no headway on the case, Dean was in a terrible mood because of his car and his angel. The anxiety about losing the Impala, as well as the low-key guilt and concern he was harboring over Castiel, meant Dean was about as chatty as a rebellious teen and twice as sour. He barely said a word to Sam as they trudged through the cold, only sparing a couple growled syllables when they passed by a particularly charming chowder place on the way.

Dean grabbed them both some cheesesteaks, shoved the bag at Sam, and then cradled a large travel-bowl of steaming hot chowder to his chest to keep it warm as they hiked the last leg of their journey. This was just Dean’s way. Being that he was an emotionally-strained butthead, he had to go about his apologies and shows of affection in the most round-about, begrudging ways possible. So he’d gotten Cas some expensive chowder in hopes he’d be forgiven for his callousness earlier, even though there was no way poor Cas would equate _here’s some soup_ to _I’m sorry I said that, we really do need you._ As an angel, he wasn’t versed in those kind of exchanges. It seemed unfair to expect it from him.

_But really,_ Sam thought, glaring at Dean’s stupid back. _Who cares what I think anyway?_

When they arrived at the motel, Dean jammed the key into their door with purpose, and stepped in with his shoulders squared sternly for battle. Whatever he was expecting, Dean didn’t find it and stalled just inside the threshold. Sam waited like a shadow, got impatient after exactly one second, and shoved past so he could get into the heat of the motel room too, before hurriedly closing the door.

Castiel was just as they left him, in bed, though he had stolen the other comforter and was huddled in a little, angelic ball beneath the heaps of covers. They could only see a tuft of his dark hair at this angle, as he was faced away from the door. Dean’s body tensed and Sam knew immediately what he was thinking.

Capping a firm hand over his brother’s shoulder, Sam whispered, “Just let him sleep, Dean.”

“He should eat while it’s hot,” Dean griped, lofting the chowder with an emphatic gesture while watching Cas. “This damn wonder-soup cost eleven bucks.”

“We have a microwave if it gets cold,” Sam said. He thought that was pretty reasonable, but Dean didn’t look convinced. He was chewing on the inside of his lip, still staring at the bed, and after a moment he shrugged off Sam’s grip and started walking. This time, Sam body-blocked him.

“Look,” Sam hissed, trying to keep his voice low while still getting his exasperation across. “I know you want to make it up to him for being such an asshole earlier, but more than anything right now, he needs rest.”

They started performing the side-step tango, Dean attempting to dodge and Sam intercepting. Because Dean was holding an easy-to-spill tub of chowder and was smaller than Sam, he wasn’t having much luck. It only took a few aborted attempts before he got louder.

“Sam, _move it.”_

Sam glanced over at Cas to be sure Dean’s voice hadn’t woke him, but much to his relief, the angel hadn't moved. Checking on him turned out to be a mistake though; Dean took advantage of the opening and rounded the bed, setting the chowder on the nightstand nearby as he immediately set to shaking Castiel by the shoulder, reaching into his cover cocoon to do it.

“Cas, hey,” Dean said. He sounded upset. Sam was kind of upset too, given Dean was being a complete dick _again_. When Cas didn’t stir, he sprung forward in one last-ditch effort to keep it that way.

“Dean!” Sam whisper-shouted, snatching Dean’s coat sleeve. Dean jerked away from him with such venom, it surprised Sam into silence.

“CAS!” Dean said again, shaking harder. His voice cracked, dropping to a lower register as he stood straight again. “Cas, you son of a bitch…”

Something icy-hot trickled into Sam’s stomach, the worst kind of fear. Pausing to stare fully at Castiel for the first time since entering the room, Sam saw what Dean had suspected the moment he opened the door: Cas was white as a sheet, a little blue around the lips, and completely still. Scarily still. Sam’s hand darted automatically to check his pulse and he gasped at the temperature of Castiel’s skin. It was so cold, and the longer Sam kept his fingers there, the more unnatural it became. He could barely detect a pulse, not totally sure there even was one. Castiel both felt and looked frozen.

He looked dead.

Sam snapped his gaze to Dean, who was fighting his coat like a drowning man dragged under, stumbling as he toed off his shoes at the same time. He was so frantic that he managed to pop a button off his overcoat before throwing it to the floor, completely unconcerned, and when he caught Sam staring he nearly bit his head off.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” he roared, already yanking back the considerable mountain of covers to get inside. “Get your fucking coat off and _help me.”_

Dean’s voice spurred him into action, and Sam wrestled out of his damp coat before kicking off his shoes and hurriedly getting into bed. It was tight squeeze with all three of them, knees knocking and bodies pressing. Usually Sam could be very professional about these things, but he couldn’t help feeling awkward as he edged against Cas’s back, slotting up against the angel. Dean had glued himself to Castiel’s front, practically nose to nose with him, staring into Cas’s face like if he only glared hard enough, the angel would wake. Skin-to-skin contact was a more efficient heat transfer, but it seemed neither him nor Dean felt confident enough to suggest it.

The whole thing happened so fast, Sam didn’t think to question anything until they were both finally settled in the covers together with Cas, slowly beginning to sweat as the heat accumulated between them.

“What’s wrong with him?” Sam asked softly, trying to avoid getting Castiel’s hair in his mouth.

“Dunno,” Dean whispered, targets locked on the angel. Looking closely, Sam could see a mix of fear – two different kinds of fear, that is. The fear for Castiel’s life, and the fear for Dean’s own well-established heterosexuality. Granted, the second one was very underplayed at the moment, but no matter how dire the situation was, all three of them were currently bumping junk. Castiel’s frail health was a welcome distraction.

When Dean didn’t continue, Sam ventured to ask, “You think this is because of his cold?”

“Do headcolds normally turn people into friggin’ _popcicles?”_ was Dean’s growled reply.

“No, but he’s not human. He’s an angel with faulty grace.”

“It’s not faulty,” Dean snapped, shifting beneath the covers and (to Sam’s quiet surprise) reaching up to tuck Castiel’s head just under his chin. He angled a couple fingers up under Cas’s jaw, probably tracking his pulse. “Don’t call it that.”

Sam fought not to roll his eyes. “Look, I just mean-… if it was working correctly, Cas wouldn’t be like this. And clearly he’s been holding out on us if it’s gotten this bad right under our noses.”

Some of those scars from Cas’s stint as God still hadn’t disappeared, never would, and Dean’s expression darkened at the mention of more possible secrets. Sam hated to cause that, especially with Cas laying prone and still against them, but Dean needed to understand what it meant. There was a reason Cas wasn’t sharing everything with them, and Sam suspected it had nothing to do with trust and everything to do with something else. Something Dean-related, as was usually the case.

Dean’s nostrils flared as he took in an uncertain breath, then exhaled with purpose. “We’ll ask ‘em when he wakes up.”

Because of course Cas, like always, would wake up. To Dean, there was no possible alternative. And Sam didn’t want there to be.

They laid there without speaking for a long while. Sam suspected the awkwardness was most of the reason why they had nothing to talk about, but he also wanted to leave Dean to his own private worries and thoughts. If Dean didn’t want to talk about feelings, that was fine, but Sam sure as hell wasn’t going to stop him from _feeling_ them. Judging by the tired sheen to his eyes and the way his thumb kept stroking back and forth across the nape of Castiel’s neck, Sam thought he was feeling quite a lot.

The brittle silence snapped in half when Cas finally moved. Sam felt a shudder ripple through Castiel, and thought Dean must have felt it too. They locked eyes over the top of Castiel’s head. Half a minute later, another flutter jostled them. Basic survival training had taught Sam that shivering was a good sign in a person so cold, and he let go of breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Dean leaned away from Cas, searching his face, speaking in a soothing tone Sam had not heard since the last time one of them had stood at Death’s door and knocked. It almost hurt his heart to hear it now.

“Cas? Easy does it,” Dean said, running one of his hands up and down Castiel’s arm. Sam couldn’t see it clearly because of the blankets, but he knew that’s what Dean was doing. “Keep climbing, buddy. One step at a time, come on. There ya go.”

The shivering got worse, almost violent in its intensity, until the whole bed was trembling and Sam had to turn his head so his jaw didn’t rattle against Cas’s skull. All the while, Dean patiently coaxed Castiel into wakefulness. His tenacity, and the fact he didn’t once shout, told Sam all he needed to know. Staring at the ceiling, baking alive under a mound of quilts, he could pin-point the exact moment Cas opened his eyes without having to look.

“Hey, there,” Dean said. He’d scarcely heard his brother so soft and gentle. “Cas, you with me?”

But tender as the moment was, Cas continued to vibrate and when he spoke, his voice slurred. Sam suspected he wasn’t lucid. “D-…D-..?”

“Yahtzee,” Dean said, because they both knew what Cas was trying to say. What he always said when he woke up or arrived or whatever and laid eyes on the Winchesters. He shifted to brace Cas better now that the angel was getting difficult to hold, and Sam pressed in to compensate. The weak, answering cry from Castiel caused them both pause before Dean jerked with realization. “Fuck-.. Sam, his wings-…”

“Oh-!” Sam had completely forgotten about the wing injuries during the shuffle of stripping down to help Cas with his hypothermic coma. He scrambled to put distance between them, somewhat trapped by the tight sheet scheme they’d rigged. After rolling out of bed – quite gracefully for the situation, he might add – Sam hurriedly (but very carefully, under the watchful glare of Dean’s eyes) tucked the blankets into their original position.

Cas continued to shudder, small and pale in Dean’s arms. No matter how many times either of them asked him if he was okay or if he could hear them, Cas only answered occasionally, and always with the shaky, bleating sounds of their names. It was worrying and made Sam restless for something to do to fix it. Dean looked about the same, his frown etching deeper and deeper into the lines of his face each time Cas failed to respond correctly. Sam scanned the room for an answer, found none, and when he glanced back at Dean he met his brother’s unsettled gaze.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him, Sammy,” he said, tone hollow. He’d gathered Cas to his chest, preventing him from balling up again as he continued to forcibly shiver. To Sam, it seemed like Dean was clinging to something that he feared might get taken from him. “I don’t know what to do. What the hell kind of – _holy shit!”_

Dean’s last words squeaked out after a sharp gasp, his whole body jerking. Sam lunged forward, not even sure what he was saving his brother from before Dean shook his head just once. He had his eyes screwed shut and his breath came in sharp, short bursts. Another shift on the mattress and Dean hissed, tensing up even more, and mumbled: “Friggin’ _freezing_ …”

The blankets made it difficult to tell, but after a moment, Sam realized Cas must have his hands on Dean. Judging by his brother’s reactions, which were less jumpy but still guarded, Castiel probably had his cold palms pressed against Dean’s toasty rib-cage. Maybe the small of his back. When they were younger, Sam used to soak his hands in the ice bucket before sneaking up on Dean and slipping his fingers under his shirt. Those areas always got the loudest responses, and usually ended in somewhat brutal wrestling matches. Clearly Castiel got a free pass, despite Dean’s twitchy scowl.

Actually… from the stiff way Dean held himself and the shape of the mound under the covers, Sam deduced that Cas had likely wrapped his arms around him, even tangled their legs together. They were facing one another, totally flush, bodies aligned and slotted tightly against the covers as Cas continued to shiver. They were so unified that Dean looked like he was shivering too, even if he was really just picking up shock-waves from his proximity to Cas. With some relief, Sam noticed the shudders didn’t seem quite as strong as they were minutes ago.

It shouldn’t have ben funny, it really shouldn’t have, but Sam was helpless to stop the grin that yanked at the corner of his mouth. “Comfortable?”

Dean didn’t look at him, choosing instead to glare at the wall with his chin resting on the top of Castiel’s head. Sam used these precious few moments to pull out his phone, swipe open the camera app, and aim.

“Just peachy,” Dean said, and then glanced over just as Sam secured focus on the lens. “Sam, _don’t you dare_.”

The click-shutter from the app was his reply, and while the quality of the photo was slightly ruined by Dean’s bitching at the camera, Sam was happy to have it at all. It would be good possible blackmail in the future, and Cas might like to see it once he woke up properly. Because there was no question that he would. The thought sobered him and he shoved his phone into his pocket again, a little embarrassed he’d even taken a picture given the gravity of the situation. But now Dean seemed less hopeless and more annoyed, which was always a good sign. He continued to squirm, holding himself unnaturally still.

“What exactly is he up to under there?” Sam asked, not so sure he wanted to know. If he strained to listen, he could hear soft, breathless noises from Cas. Had his condition not been so obviously dire when they walked in, Sam might have jumped ship and left Dean to his angel by now. “I feel like I’m third-wheeling.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, flinching again when Cas moved beneath the covers. “Some kind of angel programming? He’s whispering in Enochian… or maybe he’s trying to make a move, hell if I know.”

Not very reassuring, but better than Cas being catatonic. Watching Dean continue to jerk and swear on the mattress got awkward fast, so Sam busied himself around the room. He cranked up the thermostat, scrolled on his phone for more tips about hypothermia, and mentally ticked off everything he knew about angel grace. Only a few minutes passed before a faint sound broke the silence, followed immediately by Dean’s sharp shout.

Sam launched across the room, nearly tripping over their long-forgotten shoes left by the bed in the process. “What? What happened?”

Dean was staring wide-eyed down at Cas, who had his face nuzzled securely in the crook of Dean’s neck. The shivering had stabilized, not abated, and Castiel remained unresponsive save for the intermittent mumbles of their names or murmured Enochian. Dean tried to get some space in between them, but Cas refused to let go, not even a little bit.

“Something touched me,” Dean said, and rolled his eyes when Sam unintentionally pulled a face. Because really, TMI. “Not like that, you dope. It was like steam, or smoke..” Dean’s eyebrows trenched as he struggled to describe it. “I think he sneezed.”

“He…sneezed steam on you?” Sam raised his eyebrows in a bid for more information, gesturing with a _more please_ roll of his hand when Dean stopped talking and turned toward Cas again. “…Dean?”

Dean hushed him, their stubble scratching together as he craned his neck away from Cas’s face enough for Sam to see his pinched, suffering expression more easily. At once, Cas strained to burrow against Dean again, but Sam reached out to help keep him still. It only took a few moments before he jolted the bed with another hushed sound.

This time Sam recognized the noise as Castiel’s kittenish sneeze, and froze when a wisp of shimmering, thick air vented out through his mouth. It was more cohesive then fog, yet not as fluffy as a cloud, and the nearly imperceptible glow was mesmerizing. Dean flinched because he took the brunt of it against the side of his head, but aside from startling him, it didn’t seem painful. They watched it soon dissipate in the air, too fast for Sam to determine exactly what it could be.

“You see that?” Dean asked, absently rearranging Cas with a guiding hand cradling the back of his head. For all his germaphobic tendencies at rest-stops and public pay-phones, he didn’t seem very bothered by getting sneezed on. But maybe that was just because it was Cas, and Cas was his exception for almost everything.

“Yeah,” Sam said. It had been beautiful, whatever it was, though he had no idea how or why Cas would be sneezing out something like that. He hadn’t before. Was it the cause of his mysterious, comatose state, or a symptom of it?

“Felt really warm,” Dean piped up again, sounding just as lost in questions as Sam was. Some of Dean’s best ideas came from when he was thinking out loud; Sam got his greatest answers from the silence in his own head. “Sort of like when he uses his mojo for mind whammies, or healing.”

It had been a while since Sam had felt the heated pulse of Cas’s power. He could remember the brief rush of it those few times, how it felt – like a sun blazing through him, except painless. “So it felt like his mojo?”

“Well, it should feel like that.”

The third, unfamiliar voice had both brothers reeling, Sam automatically reaching for his gun and aiming at the source before he could register a fourth person had entered the room. A second later, before he could even get off the safety, his weapon was torn from his hand by a force familiar to him: demon juice. Dean startled on the bed when the gun hit the wall, holding still only when Cas moaned softly next to him. Sam darted a glance and saw his brother seemed torn between body-blocking Castiel and sailing in front of Sam.

The woman at the door continued, plastic bags looped around her arms while she held several silver thermoses to her chest, “…because that’s his grace he’s breathing away.”

Sam noted the door was still closed, so she might have just poofed in somehow. Fuck, hadn’t they warded the room? Dean had been adamant about it, especially with Cas sick as he was. Sam was sure he remembered tracing a devil’s trap under that doormat she was now walking over, and unless he got the lines wrong, she shouldn’t have been able to get into the room.

That is, if she was an angel or demon.

She crossed quickly to the table, brushing aside Sam’s files as she unloaded her supplies. Sam caught Dean’s eyes, slipping a hand to his belt where his knife resided. He got as far as grabbing the hilt before it too was yanked from his grasp and flung across the room. The woman shot what passed as an unimpressed glance over her shoulder.

“Guys, cut the crap, please?” she said, thermoses jingling against one another as she arranged them. “I’m here for the same reason you are.” A nod to Castiel before turning her again to her supplies. “To help him.”

“Who the hell _are_ you?” Dean growled. It was his _don’t-fuck-with-my-family_ voice. The kind of voice he put on just before he berserkered or kamikazed himself into an unknown enemy with absolutely no plan at all. Sam made sure to put himself directly in his path, just in case.

“An old friend of is, and not the douchey kind,” she replied, shaking a thermos as if she was bar-tending. With her other hand, she rustled in a grocery bag and removed a gallon of milk. “Sam, be a doll and pour a cup of this, would you?”

“No way are we helping you cook up some kind of sick spell, you bitch,” Dean snarled. Sam gave him a look because really, talking like that to what seemed to be a powerful adversary when they were unarmed with a man down was kind of a no-no in terms of strategy. Dean only gave him a look in return.

The woman, meanwhile, snorted. “Honey, this is vanilla-soy from the A&P. Chill out.”

Dean balked, so Sam ran interference. “What was that about his grace?”

She answered without looking up, now unloading a jar of honey with a homemade branding label stuck on the glass. “He’s losing it, piece by piece.” Her eyebrows trenched into a frown for the first time since she entered the room. “It’s killing him.”

Sam heard Dean suck in a breath behind him. Killing him. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, given how often Cas got hurt or died, but every time it was a blow to the gut. Before either of them could get in a word edgewise about that particular reveal, the woman snapped her fingers.

“Sam. Milk. Chop-chop.”

Despite himself, Sam actually found himself going for the milk. Whoever she was, she had a charisma he couldn’t help but respond to and she didn’t seem bent on hurting anybody. Logically, it would be stupid to put on such an elaborate ruse when she could probably kill them both on the spot anyway. She’d sort of caught them with their pants down. He wrapped his fingers around the milk carton just as Dean spoke.

“How do you know his name?”

The woman chuckled, still vigorously shaking the thermos. Both were low, warm sounds. “My dear, in Heaven, Hell, Earth, and in-between, who _hasn’t_ heard of the Winchesters?”

The next handful of minutes were a whirlwind for Sam, who was made to fetch a water glass, fill it with milk, microwave it, test it, microwave it again, dollop four large spoonfuls of honey into the drink, then mix. Dean started out bitching like tiny dog with strangers in his territory but soon fell into a sullen, guarded silence. Twice more Cas sneezed, and each time a sliver of what Sam knew now to be his grace slipped away.

All the while, the woman continued to casually answer the questions Sam lobbed at her. He’d realized she was the waitress from the diner early during the conversation, though she remained vague concerning the coincidence and why Cas hadn’t recognized her right away. Dean really hated most of the answers they got and was preoccupied with Cas, so he never asked any of his own.

“It’s like, angel flu? Angel hypothermia?”

“Kind of? It happens when an angel’s grace gets so fucked up it can’t function anymore, which makes it start nope-ing out of existence like this.” She cracked open a thermos and started painstakingly pouring it into the warm honey-milk, her face only inches away from the glass.

It was fascinating. Sam hadn’t even known grace could do something like that. “How do you know all this?”

“I’m old, and I listen when people talk.”

“When angels talk, you mean?”

“Yeah, well, we were kind of neighbors for a while.”

His curiosity got to him. “Exactly who are you again?”

“Shh!” she snapped, still focused on the task of pouring. Peering closer, Sam noticed the mixture in the thermos was glittering with all the colors of the spectrum, translucent and opaque all at once. Alarm bubbled hot in his chest.

“Hold on a sec,” he said, pointing. “What _is_ that?”

“Stardust and space matter,” she replied, capping the thermos and swirling the glass with a critical squint to her eyes. “What angels are made out of. Basically, grace before it’s pasteurized and distilled.”

Sam blinked. How had that little tidbit never made it into the lore records? More importantly, how did this random, highway-woman know about something like that? Neighbor to angels? Please. Sam opened his mouth to say as much, but the woman held up a stern hand.

“No, no more questions, you’ve asked too many already,” she said. Taking a delicate sniff of the beverage in her hands, she cut a brisk pace for the bed. In the past few minutes, Sam noticed with a sinking heart that Castiel’s shivering had gotten bad again. Even worse, his muscles were so exhausted, he couldn’t seem to manage more than a couple rough shudders before he paused for a rest, then restarted. His eyes were closed, complexion paling. Dean bundled Cas up tightly and angled his shoulder toward their visitor, eyes flinty.

She sat down on the bed as if he’d welcomed her there. “Relax, lover boy,” she said, offering the glass. “You wanna do the honors?”

“I’m not feeding him whatever voodoo juice you mixed.”

“Consider it medicine. I even put in the milk and honey so it would go down easy, come on.”

Dean glared at the concoction, scowling like it was poison. Sam wanted to intercede but wasn’t sure how. Given how vulnerable Dean looked, huddled in the bed with an ailing Castiel, it wouldn’t be smart to spook him. He got dangerous when he was spooked.

“What is he to you, huh?” he snapped, tightening his hold on Cas as if to shield him. “Why are you really here?”

At last, something in there hit a nerve and the woman’s face fell. Blank at first, then with a sharp edge. “I’m here because he’s my friend. Why is that so hard for you to understand? You’re his friends. You want him to die?”

“No!” Dean spluttered.

“Great, we’re all on the same page.” She shoved the drink at arm’s length, still careful not to slosh it. “Now, you wanna do it or should I?”

Dean snatched the glass, glaring so hard he could burn a hole in her if eyes could do such damage. It was rare Dean was matched for moxie, but this woman had him cornered. He shifted his position a little to lull Cas’s head onto his chest, ensuring his head was tipped up at the right angle before fitting the rim of the glass to his lips and pouring.

They all watched his progress. The first swallows went down rough, but the rest came rhythmically and naturally. Cas took each one like a champ. By the time he got to the dregs at the bottom, his shivering had stopped completely. Sam could see a little color in his cheeks. Dean hesitated before removing the glass, which was quickly received by the woman. She stood up from the bed and walked away just as Cas began to properly stir.

Sam watched Cas, but he mostly watched Dean watch Cas. His brother’s eyes were darting across Cas’s face, round and hopeful. He licked his bottom lip, biting back whatever he wanted to say as he waited. At last, blue eyes emerged from behind heavy lids, and that familiar deep voice rumbled what sounded like his first lucid word all afternoon.

“Dean?”

He was congested, sounded like he was gargling knives, and looked very weak. Sam cautioned a hand to keep Castiel from sitting up when he tried, though it was Dean’s strong grip that stopped him all together. He gave up immediately, his head lolling back against Dean’s chest. It worried Sam that he breathed heavy, winded from just that small effort.

Dean didn’t say anything. Just sagged against the pillows with a huge sigh as he cupped a hand over Cas’s forehead. Beading with sweat from staying under the covers so long, hungry and exhausted and probably still worried about losing his car, none of that mattered to Dean in that one singular moment of relief.

“Holy shit, Cas,” he said, huffing out a laugh that made Cas bounce a little with where he was laying against Dean's front. “About time.”

“Time?” Cas echoed, squinting at the ceiling and then over at Sam. Eventually he tried to look up at Dean, though he only succeeded in getting Dean’s hand to slip over his eyes. “Time for what?”

Dean laughed again with a shake of his head. Sam hadn’t seen Dean ride this kind of high in a while. He was so happy he didn’t even realize he was now carding his hand through Cas’s wild bed-head. Sam decided to make his exit. Like, now.

He patted a hand on Cas’s lump of blankets, aiming for his shoulder. “Glad you’re okay, Cas.”

“I… suppose I am as well,” he mumbled, totally frozen, because like Sam he too had noticed Dean was running his fingers to and fro through his hair. Sam supposed he either didn’t want it to stop or didn’t know what to do about it. Probably both.

He expected Dean to fly into a rage about Cas keeping secrets, or for the healer lady to come swooping over with a congratulatory high-five for Cas on his recovery. Neither happened. The only thing that changed was Sam stood up from the bed, walked to the other side of the room, and stood near the table with the woman.

“They make a cute couple,” she remarked, measuring out another cup of milk.

“They’re uh… not together,” Sam replied. It felt odd to say that. Watching them now, he wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or not.

The woman was undeterred. “If not yet, they probably will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. I AM SO SORRY IT TOOK THIS LONG. School started for me, so I've been really busy. Also I was having a lot of trouble structuring this chapter. Sam is sometimes challenging for me to write, so I hope he comes off with an authoritative voice instead of the bland one I fear he has. 
> 
> I'll be honest -- not sure when the next update will be. I WILL finish this, I promise! But I signed up for DCBB and school is running my life. As always thank you so much for you patience Puds, and the patience of all those who are reading this and keeping up with my silly story! It means the world to me to know someone out there is enjoying something I write. Hope to see some (or all!) for DCBB this year :). Until then~!


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